


The Magic of Us

by emmsi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Daily Prophet, F/M, Ghosts, Hellhounds, Hogwarts - Freeform, House Arryn, House Gardener, House Lannister, House Stark, Humor, Jon Snow is The Boy Who Lived, Magic, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Philosopher's Stone, Prophecy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:44:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14871398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmsi/pseuds/emmsi
Summary: A loosely-based Hogwarts AU, covering the first four HP books (Philosopher's Stone to Goblet of Fire). The only warning to heed is that it contains the POV of an eleven-year-old Sansa to begin with.Sandor receives his letter from Westeros School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Sansa receives some soul-crushing news.(Now tagged with school staff and some things that will be relevant in the first year.)





	1. THE LETTER

**THE LETTER**

 

**Sandor**

Sandor didn’t believe in magic. So when the first letter came through the door one morning with a handful of leaflets advertising two-for-one pizza and special deals on kebabs, and the all-too-familiar deluge of letters addressed to his father in big red letters shouting _IMPORTANT_ and _FINAL DEMAND_ , he chucked it in the bin without opening it.

When the second letter came, he tore it into shreds and left it unread.

It had to be one of Gregor’s jokes. One of his so-called friends, more like lackeys, must have sent it, and from the look of the wax seal and thick, creamy envelope, they must have really wanted to have a laugh at Sandor’s expense, for they’d spared no expenses.

It had to be Gregor, because only Gregor knew about the stories their mother used to tell. Instead of fairy tales, they got adventures at a school of witchcraft and wizardry, how all the wizards and witches in the land would receive a letter around their eleventh birthday, and how they’d be sorted into one of the four most ancient great houses in the land.

House Arryn, founded by Artys Arryn, was the house of the falcon, blue and white, and valued those with honour. House Gardener, founded by Garth Greenhand, was the only house without an animal, and was simply a green hand that accepted all who sought it. House Lannister, founded by Lann the Clever, was a lion in red and gold, and their mother would wrinkle her nose and tell him that the house claimed to value bravery, but in truth, Lann had won all his duels by trickery. Some wizards believed that House Lannister would manipulate the sorting hat to place promising young wizards into their house instead of where they truly belonged. But Sandor had never care about that.

Only one house had truly mattered. The greatest and most ancient house of all. House Stark, the house of the wolf.

‘Grey, like your eyes,’ their mother used to say. ‘Founded by Bran the Builder, who had dark hair and grey eyes just like you. True Starks knew diretongue, and can speak to wolves!’

‘And what do they value, mother?’

‘Well… there’s honesty, and kindness, and bravery too, though I would say that most of all, they value endurance. Yes, the ability to endure winter.’

It’d all sounded terribly mysterious. On days when she hadn’t felt unwell, she used to wrap Sandor in a bedsheet and let him pretend that it was a wizard robe.

But that was all before.

And now? Now, why would–

Oh. Was it because of the trip to the zoo? Eli had convinced her friend’s family – who was more like her foster family nowadays, as she’d won them over with her winning personality, of which Sandor did not possess – that she’d like Sandor there too for the birthday party they were throwing her at the zoo. And he’d spent too long in front of the wolf den, willing one of them to speak to him. But of course, they'd just stared and walked away. Because there was no such thing as magic in the world. Fuck. Had Gregor found out?

He was lying awake at night, planning to key a car in front of the cops in order to get into juvie again – because at least there, his belly would be full and his bed clean, and nothing inside was as bad as Gregor –  when something rumbled in their chimney breast. Sandor dragged himself towards the fireplace where Gregor had once cooked his face – well, perhaps there was magic in that, because no doc could make those burn scars heal, and every time they put him through surgery, they’d come back just as gruesome weeks later. He held his breath and listened. Beyond the violent snoring of his father, there was definitely something coming from the chimney. He heard… a fluttering of paper? And… Before he could work it out, and assault of soot and letters poured through the fireplace and filled the room.

Flying. The letters were flying.

Gregor couldn’t make those letters flutter about their decaying home like a flock of little birds.

Sandor made a grab at the nearest letter and double checked the name at the front. Mr. S. Clegane. It really was for him. He traced his fingers over the crest that contained the four symbols he’d loved so well as a child arranged around the letter W. The lion, the wolf, the hand, and the falcon. Then he drew in a deep breath and broke the red wax seal and read.

_Westeros School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Jeor Mormont (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwomp, International Confederation of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr Clegane,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Westeros School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Wyman Manderly_

_Deputy Headmaster_

It was followed by a huge list of items. Robes. Hats. Gloves. A wand. A cauldron. And books. Books upon books upon books.

Fuck that.

He crumpled the letter in his hand.

How the hell was he going to buy all that?

But… it hadn’t mentioned school fees. And wasn’t Westeros a boarding school? There’d be a softer bed and better food than in juvie in a posh school like that, he’d be willing to bet. And so what if he turned up with none of those items? What could they do? Kick him out? Not before he ate his welcome meal.

He smoothed out the letter once again. Definitely no mention of fees. Now, how the fuck did he send an owl?

 

**Sansa**

Today had to be the worst day of her life.

A Squib.

It was the morning of the first of September, and there was no longer any way to hide it, so they’d let it out for the media. For soon enough, they’d have seen anyway that Joffrey wasn’t about to board the Westeros Express, because Joffrey was a Squib.

How could it be?

_How? Oh, how, how, how?_

Joffrey was her golden prince. They were going to be married! And now they couldn’t. Not that she minded him being a Squib. No. She loved him anyway, because they were intended for each other. Mother and Father had both said so.

Well, they weren’t saying so now, because Joffrey’s mother was a Lannister, and the Lannisters always disowned Squibs and removed them from the family tree. Sansa felt her eyes sting with the threat of hot, hot tears. Her poor Joffrey! If only she could give her Westeros acceptance letter to him. She’d willingly make the trade, because she loved him so! But no one would believe she was a Squib, because she could quite clearly talk to her direwolf.

 _Oh Lady_ , she spoke to her only true companion right now. _Arya laughed when she found out. Can you believe that?_

Lady cocked her head and laughed. Laughed!

_Et tu, Lady?_

She swallowed a mouthful of lemon cakes, because she really couldn’t manage anything else for breakfast on a morning like this, and pushed away her copy of the _Daily Prophet_. The headline news was making her sick. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her silk embroidered napkin.

There was a large, unflattering picture of Cersei Lannister, dragging Joffrey out of the way and slamming the door in the reporter’s face, and underneath it was written, _BARATHEON SQUIB! Joffrey Baratheon, the son of the greatest Quiddich player of all time, Robert Baratheon, and the Lannister heiress, Cersei Lannister, has been revealed as a Squib. Read our 8 page exclusive within._

Inside was an interview with Joffrey’s uncle, Stannis Baratheon, Minister of Magic, to confirm that there’d been no mistake, that Joffrey really had no magical abilities. It sat next to a huge picture of the even huger Wyman Manderly, Deputy Headmaster at Westeros, with a quote that said, ‘I can’t believe it either! What a shocker!’ Then there was a grim photo of Tywin Lannister, head of the Lannister family, confirming that with Joffrey’s newfound status, he would be removed from both the Baratheon and the Lannister family tree. There was even a photo of the Lannister family tree, where Joffrey had been completely scrubbed off, leaving only Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon legible. On the last of the special report, there was a photo of herself, smiling, waving, and looking pretty next to Robb. Underneath it, it said, _Stark betrothal OFF!_

Sansa simply couldn’t bear to read it all. She knew because she’d already read it twice.

And she also knew that what was in _The Quibbler_ was even worse.

They’d come up with some conspiracy theory that Joffrey’s Squib status was a result of in-breeding, and they’d backed it up by including a page on how all Baratheon children were born with dark hair and blue eyes, followed by another titled ‘Half-Bloods: the strongest wizards in the wizarding world’.

‘Sansa dear,’ said Mother, ‘hurry up and finish your breakfast. You need to look your best for the Westeros Express. You know how important first impressions are.’

But what was the point of looking her best when Joffrey wouldn’t be there to see it?

‘You know,’ Mother carried on, ‘I met your Father for the first time on the Westeros Express, and–’

‘I didn’t make a good impression,’ said Father, with a soft smile that spoke of their great love even after all those years of marriage.

That could have been her and Joffrey, but it was not to be.

‘Squibs are people too,’ said Sansa.

‘Sansa. We’ll not go through this again,’ said Mother.

‘My sweet Sansa,’ said Father, ‘listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a man who is worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. You must believe me.’

‘I don't want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We'll be ever so happy, even if he is a Squib,’ Sansa insisted, ‘you'll see.’

Arya choked on her fried eggs and took a big, unladylike swig of her tea. She was holding it as it was a coffee mug! If it weren’t for the time, Mother would have told her off for sure, but instead, Mother waved her wand and removed the redness and puffiness from Sansa’s eyes, made her hair shine like silk, and tapped her bottom lip in the all-too-familiar move to ask her to open up so that she could check that nothing was stuck on Sansa’s teeth.

‘You’re good to go,’ said Mother. ‘Why don’t you sit with Robb and Jon later? Jeyne will be starting today too, so the four of you can share a compartment.’

‘I don’t _want_ to,’ said Sansa. Actually, she did, but she didn’t want to agree with her parents today, because they’d done nothing to help Joffrey. How alone Joffrey must be feeling in the world at this moment in time! She’d send him an owl as soon as she got to Westeros. ‘You just said I should make a good first impression on the Westeros Express,’ she said, ‘so I’m going to sit with someone else.’

‘If you say so, my sweet.’

‘I do say so,’ she said. She straightened her custom-fitted robe, tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, and tugged on her platinum wolf pendant for luck. There was a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. She was going to regret it, wasn’t she?


	2. THE TRAIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A train to the north, featuring wands and Chocolate Frogs.

**THE TRAIN**

 

**Sandor**

Breaking into the zoo had worked out. Sort of. Sandor had walked straight past the wolf den this time, not wanting to be eaten before he could eat a proper meal, and had gone straight to the owl sanctuary. From Wyman Manderly’s second letter, it seemed that the act of whispering messages to the zoo owls and releasing them to find Westeros School of Witchcraft and Wizardry hadn’t done much in itself; it was because a member of staff from the school had read, to quote, ‘a Muggle newspaper detailing the escape of three burrowing owls, five spectacled owls, six white-faced scops owls and two tawny frogmouths, which aren’t actually owls, but must have been mistaken for owls’, that had alerted the school to investigate.

Wyman Manderly advised him to stay out of zoos in the foreseeable future, and instead make his way to King’s Cross, Platform 9¾, on the morning of 1st September instead. The deputy headmaster had even enclosed a train ticket.

So here he was. Platform 9¾. It sounded ridiculous, but it really did exist.

Sandor had spent the last ten minutes watching people run into a wall between platforms 9 and 10, and none of them had walked away with a bloodied head so far. Most of them had entered with trollies full of trunks; he’d even spotted a few with owls hooting in golden cages.

Presently, a boy with a moon-shaped face who looked like he’d never missed a single meal in his life was being smothered in kisses by his mother. His three younger sisters then took turns to bid their mother and younger brother a tearful farewell. Fuck. Did they have to take so bloody long? You’d think that the children were going off to war, not school.

Sandor gripped his bag for life which, unfortunately, depicted two yellow flowers and a bee. It contained all his worldly possessions: a few changes of clothes that he’d washed in the sink of the men’s room in the local shopping centre with a few squirts of their handwashing soap, two small boxes of cornflakes that had been a parting gift from Eli, a stuffed toy dog that his mother had got him too long ago and was worth too little to sell, and the wand. The wand was his now; he’d paid his price.

Before he could change his mind, he walked through the wall. Not before he caught a glimpse of the horror that had crept onto the other boy’s face as he passed him by.

There were more scenes of hugs and tears on the other side of the wall, where a blood-red antique train sat under the vaulted ceilings of the platform. It was a thing of beauty, and looked as if it’d run on steam, though it probably ran on magic instead. Sandor brushed his hair across his scars once more and hauled himself onto the train before his face could scare the living daylights out of yet another child.

Instead of rows and rows of seats, the train was split into compartments, filled with the chattering and giggling of others, and the hooting of owls. Sandor passed the compartments one by one, until he found an empty one right at the end. He threw his bag for life onto the velvety seat cushions. There was even a dainty little lamp on the dark wood table, both of which looked like they’d seen a few centuries, but would be reduced to splinters from seeing Gregor’s fists just the once. He sank into the seat by the window, keeping his good side to the sliding doors so that – what? So that someone walking past might gaze in and see a normal-looking boy and be lured to walk in, and Sandor would win them over with his small talk? Definitely his strong point. Wasn’t the weather fucking bland today? Neither rainy nor sunny. Just typically grey. Like the too-small t-shirt he was currently sporting, as if it’d bring him luck and get him sorted into the House he’d once dreamt of.

He was of half a mind to shift over to the other side, to have his scars on full display for whoever was to peak in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it – he’d never been brave after all – so he opened a pack of cornflakes and made a start on it. It was nearly eleven o’clock after all. Close enough to lunch time. Wyman Manderly had mentioned that it’d take all day for the train to head north, and that they’d arrive at Westeros just in time for dinner. So before then, his cornflakes would have to tide him over. He was chucking another in his mouth when the conductor shouted in a cheery voice, ‘All aboard!’ The train pulled out of the platform and chugged northwards.

He set down his cornflakes and drew the wand out of his bag, trying to pace himself, to make those cornflakes last. The wand was dark as soot, and there were a few thorn-like spikes near the tip of it, which gently curved into the base, where three grooves had been carved. When he’d first laid eyes on it, he’d believed it to be a real wizard’s wand. Which was why he’d not been able to resist the urge to play with it, wasn’t it? Despite knowing that it was mother’s present for Gregor. Despite knowing the consequences.

Gregor had just turned eleven that summer, and hadn’t cared a hoot about the damned wand. But it had called out to Sandor, until he’d found it in his hands anyhow, against his better judgement. He’d been waving it in front of the fireplace when Gregor had found him. And then… Then… He could have sworn that the fireplace had been unlit while he’d played, but the flames were roaring when Gregor had shoved his face in it. _Roaring_. Almost as if it had been alive.

 _Swoosh_.

The compartment door flew open, and a girl with a bird on her shoulder peaked in.

‘Hello!’ she said in a soft and musical voice. She had thick auburn hair and pretty blue eyes. Sandor’s eyes flicked to her shoes out of habit, and saw that they were a made from supple calf leather. Same as the understated grey leather bag she was carrying. She was already in her uniform, and every item of clothing fitted like a second skin. Custom-made, he’d bet. He wanted to take it all off and sell it.

He ripped his gaze from the girl’s clothes as he realised that she’d fallen silent, only to catch her flinching at… of course. He’d whipped round unthinkingly because she’d interrupted his memory, and that had given her a choice view of his scars. Not only so, there were probably dried cornflakes sticking out of his face, right where his jaw bones were on display.

‘I… My friend Samwell has lost his toad,’ she said, looking away. ‘Have you seen it by any chance? He answers to the name Boris.’

 

**Sansa**

Sansa was barely able to keep her tears at bay. She looked up and fanned her eyes, not wanting to ruin Mother’s efforts to make her look her best. Oh, how she’d miss them all! Mother and Father, of course, but also Bran and little Rickon. Even Old Nan. She _wouldn’t_ miss Arya one bit, she decided, because Arya was still sniggering about Joffrey’s unfortunate fate _and_ the fact that they were now approaching Platform 9¾.

Arya simply didn’t understand.

Yes, it was true that Winterfell Manor was only a twenty-minute flight from Westeros – which meant that her trunks had been sent on in advance to Aunt Lysa – but that wasn’t the point. Sansa wanted the full Westeros experience, like in the greatest of stories. Florian had met Jonquil on the… all right, not quite Westeros Express, but the boat trip that’d led to the school. It was close enough though, because they didn’t have the Westeros Express back then. And _Father_ had gone on the Westeros Express, hadn’t he? Granted, he hadn’t used the Floo Network to travel south just to get a train back north, but had simply taken the Express because he’d been spending the summer in the south with Jon Arryn’s family, but _still_! He’d met Mother on the Westeros Express!

Not that she wanted to meet the love of her life today. She already had a love of her life. The thought of Joffrey threatened to bring fresh tears to her eyes, so she pushed that thought aside.

‘You’ll be fine, Sansa dear,’ said Mother. ‘I’ve asked Lysa and Edmure to look after you. Robb and Jon will be there too. I’m sure you’ll make some life-long friends at Westeros.’

Friends. Yes. That was precisely why the Westeros Express was of the utmost important. Legendary friendships had been forged aboard the Express. Although not the Golden Trio, because Jon’d been quite happy to travel to Westeros using other means in his first year, and had in fact met Samwell Tarly because they shared a dorm. Ygritte entered their friendship group later down the line. But anyhow, here they were today, and the Golden Trio would be taking the Westeros Express together. They were drawing plenty of stares, and she caught some students _and_ parents whispering, ‘It’s really him! The Boy Who Lived!’

The Boy Who Lived spoke to her now. ‘Sam’s lost his toad again. Have you seen him?’

‘Oh no… No I haven’t, but I’ll help look! Maybe Boris has already jumped onto the train?’

When Jon had first mentioned Samwell Tarly in his letters during his first year at Westeros, she’d dreamt of perhaps one day becoming betrothed to Samwell. Her cousin’s best friend! One of the Golden Trio! Wouldn’t that be quite the story to tell their children? But then she met Samwell, and… She’d never met anyone more… more bumbling. Oh, he was very kind, and sweet, and she truly did like him, but she’d dreamt of someone more capable. Like Joffrey. Who was a Squib.

She pushed that thought aside, hugged her family one last time, accidentally including Arya in the hug, and pulled herself onto the train, just as the train started to move. She waved frantically through the window, and once they were out of sight, she offered to check the back half of the train for the missing toad.

 _Make sure you stay on my shoulder, Lady,_ she said to her direwolf. _Wouldn’t want you to get lost as well!_

 _Don’t worry my human,_ said Lady. _I’m not going to fly off. I’m a good girl!_

It’d take some getting used to, having Lady in her flying form instead of her wolf form, as sadly Westeros did not allow direwolves in their wolf forms. Apparently they might frighten other students. But Lady was such a friendly direwolf! She hadn’t known what to expect of Lady’s flying form until today, hadn’t wanted to peak ahead like Arya had – Arya had found out that Nymeria took the form of a bat – and had half-expected a dove or a robin, but instead Lady had shape-shifted into an elegant pale chestnut kestrel.

Kestrels had sharp sight, didn’t they? Perhaps Lady could help spot Boris, even though her sense of smell would not be what it was as a direwolf.

Twenty minutes in and apart from Boris still being missing, things were going really well. She’d caught up with a few friends, none of whom had seen Boris, sadly, and had found her best friend Jeyne sharing a compartment with Beric Dondarrion! Oh, she was so happy for her friend! Jeyne had been crushing on the boy they’d codenamed The-Boy-Who-Also-Lived for years, and it was finally happening! _That_ was what was so special about the Westeros Express.

She made herself scarce, not wanting to interrupt the blossoming romance, and checked in the window of the last compartment.

There was only one lanky-looking boy with dark, should-length hair sitting in there, staring at his wand, which looked dark, roughly-crafted and heavy to wield. Was he having trouble with a spell?

She knocked lightly, but there was no response, so she slid the compartment door open, with a bit more strength than she intended to, and said, ‘Hello!’

The boy turned around, and, to her horror, he was… His face was… It must have been burnt. Dragons, perhaps? Or more likely, some kind of a curse, for the scars had done very little healing. But that aside, there was food sticking out of his mouth. Or rather, his jaw. It was unthinkable to eat with one’s mouth open, but was it really his fault if he had a mouth that was, in a way, constantly open? The boy was doomed to have bad manners for the rest of his life! Sansa couldn’t think of anything worse. But at least _she_ had her manners, so she forced herself not to stare and asked after Boris.

‘No I haven’t,’ he said. ‘Off you go now. Go back to your chirping and twittering with your friends.’

His voice sounded raspy and… angry? But he hadn’t looked angry through the compartment window, just a little lost and sad. Oh no. Had _she_ made him angry? If so she had to put it right. If he was having difficulty with a spell, then she would try and help.

She sat down in the seat opposite and said, ‘Are you casting a spell?’

When he made no response, she said, encouragingly, ‘Go on. Let’s see it?’

‘I… don’t know any, and it’s none of your business anyway.’

‘Oh. I didn’t realise you’re a first year as well.’ He looked as tall as Jon and Robb. And, judging by his clothes, Muggle-born. No wonder he’d looked so lost, and no wonder he hadn’t recognised her! ‘I’m Sansa by the way. Also a first year,’ she said, just to double check. No. There was no flicker of recognition in his steel-grey eyes that reminded her of Arya’s. Ugh. She’d write to everyone as soon as she could, but she wouldn’t write a single word to Arya for at least three days.

She turned back to the Muggle-born boy and gave him a reassuring smile. Wasn’t he lucky to have her take him under her wing? Because she knew for a fact that some other pure-bloods could be quite rude to Muggle-borns. ‘Where did you get your wand from? It doesn’t look like an Ollivanders wand. Is it from Gregorovitch?’

Her polite conversation seemed to make him tense even more so than before, and she could have sworn he’d flinched at the mention of Gregorovitch.

‘It… looks like a very unusual wand. Is it made from blackthorn? You must be quite the warrior then!’ No response. She tried again, and said, ‘Would you like some chocolate frogs? I’ve got a few in my bag.’ Father had slipped in a few, even though Mother found them utterly unhealthy.

‘Are they actual chocolate?’ he said.

‘Milk chocolate,’ she said, offering one to him.

She tore open one of the wrappers herself, and squeezed her eyes shut before inching out the card inside. Oh please be Aemon Targaryen the Dragonknight! They were super rare, and one of the only ones that Bran and Rickon were still missing from their collection. Opening one eye just a crack, she was faced with the bowing figure of Gerold Hightower instead.

‘Oh no. I’ve already got three of him. Do you want it?’ she offered it to the boy.

‘Aren’t you going to eat the chocolate?’ he said. There was now chocolate sticking out of his jaw, but she didn’t stare.

‘You can have it. I don’t have an appetite this morning,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to check what card you got?’

He offered her the packet and stuffed her chocolate frog into his mouth, all in one bite! Thank goodness Arya wasn’t here with them, because Arya’d be sure to copy the boy. She unwrapped the card in his Chocolate Frog, and found Arthur Dayne wielding his famous wand, Dawn. An aspen beauty of 14½”, core of phoenix feather, with a falling star carved into the base. She knew all the famous wands off by heart.

‘This one’s quite rare,’ she told the boy. She’d given one to Bran, and another to Rickon, but was still missing it in her own collection. ‘You should keep it!’

‘He’s moving,’ he said.

‘Y…es…’ Perhaps her new friend was a bit slow. Or did Muggle photos stay put? Uncle Edmure never mentioned that, and Uncle Edmure was the Muggle Studies Professor at Westeros. Luckily Uncle Edmure had mentioned that Muggles liked to wear clothes that had holes in and looked frayed, so she hadn’t gawked at that. Distressed and cropped, Uncle Edmure had said.

‘What’s the point of them?’ said the boy. ‘Do people buy rare cards?’

‘I… I suppose some people do,’ she said. ‘But that’d be cheating! You won’t feel the excitement when you know what you’re going to get!’

He dumped, for the lack of a better word, the card with Arthur Dayne into his distressed-looking plastic – ha, she knew that too! – bag and grunted, eyeing another Chocolate Frog. She pushed it over to him, and this time, he extracted the card as soon as he’d stuffed the frog into his mouth.

‘Is this one rare?’

‘You got Barristan Selmy! He’s the current head of the Silver Spears duelling club! That one is quite rare as well, though not as rare as Aemon the Dragonknight.’

In it went into his bag. With a start, she realised that he’d brought no trunk. There was no way that a cauldron could be at the bottom of that bag. And chances were that he didn’t have relatives among the Westeros faculty who could take his trunk in advance.

‘Did you manage to buy everything on the list? All the set books and equipment?’ she said. When he went silent again, she said, ‘What about your robes? You need to change into them when we reach the school.’

He looked angry again now, and his scars oozed in the most unpleasant way. She’d be a little annoyed too if no one had bothered to show her Diagon Alley, to show her where to buy the books she’d need for the year so that she could read them all before the start of term.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she used her best reassuring Mother-like voice and said, ‘Don’t worry. We shall find a satisfactory solution to this whole situation shortly.’

‘ _[Censored]_ hell, you are so… Ugh…’

She did _not_ appreciate the swearing, but Mother had always said that people only swore because they didn’t have a wide enough vocabulary to properly express their thoughts in a more positive manner, and she supposed that it must be true in her friend’s case. After all, Joffrey had always said that she’d grow into a lady whose beauty would be difficult to capture in words.

 _Lady_ , she said instead, _can you let Jon know that I couldn’t find Boris? And can you ask him and Robb if any of their friends have a spare robe their size?_

Lady flew off.

‘Are you serious?’ said the boy.

‘About what?’

‘You can actually speak to birds?’ He said with a snort.

She didn’t understand why it’d amuse him so, but didn’t have the heart to correct him. Instead, she offered him another Chocolate Frog and said, ‘Do you know what House you’d like to be sorted into?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I’m aware, Hogwarts sends acceptance letters by owl to wizards from wizard families, but a member of staff will go to your house to talk to you if you are a Muggle-born. However, half-bloods and Muggle families who are aware of the existence of wizards get a letter through the Muggle post instead. Harry got a visitor after the initial letters because he never got to open the letters, and he’s – of course– a special-interest student. Sandor, in this case, is not, so he’s got to fend for himself.
> 
> Sandor’s bag for life is from Asda. 
> 
> The fire that burnt Sandor’s face is, implied here, caused by an accidental curse that Sandor cast non-verbally as a child, because he was magically gifted and playing with a very dangerous wand. More on that later.  
> The first meeting is sort of an adaptation from the HP trio’s first meeting, where Hermione was helping Neville find his toad. Sansa’s ‘invasion’ of Sandor’s compartment uses adapted lines from Hermione, but with tweaks and different context… 
> 
> As for Sandor’s and Sansa’s wands… Well… This chapter took longer than expected because I kept changing my mind.  
> First of all… while other things have changed, I’ve kept the names of the wandmakers the same as in HP, as they never actually appear as characters in this fic. For those who haven’t read HP, the main British wandmaker is Ollivanders. In mainland Europe, Gregorovitch is the main guy. Wands are supposed to choose the owner, in a way, and the wood, core, length and flexibility reflect the owner’s personality. Length is partly linked to height, but also to largeness of personality, and 9” is short, while 15” long; most are around 10” to 12”. Wand flexibility is usually linked to willingness to adapt.
> 
> Then for Sansa, I thought of giving the Stark children weirwood wands, but in the end only Jon has one, because it fits best with Ghost. All Stark children have wand cores made from their direwolf’s hair though. Sansa’s wand is 9” rowan, core of Lady’s hair, pliable. Rowan’s a northern tree suited to cooler weather, and is the most unsuited to Dark Arts. It’s very good for defensive charms, and is actually very strong, but can be underestimated.
> 
> Sandor’s is 15” blackthorn, core of phoenix feather, stiff. I don’t think any of the main HP characters have a blackthorn wand, but it’s the wand of Sir Cadogan (yes, a sir), a wizard who was a Knight of the Round Table, and it’s very much a warrior’s wand wood. From Pottermore: ‘It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish.’ Phoenix feather gives the wand more independence, as it were, and makes it harder to tame, which reminds me of Stranger. 
> 
> Aspen wands and the Silver Spears is a secret historical duelling club, as aspen is a pale wood and makes wands that are good for duelling. I’ve adapted the Kingsguard into this, as the white sort of fits. 
> 
> Soooo… sorry about the lengthy note this time! Hopefully it won’t be like this for every chapter… Also, I was planning to do a time-skip, but actually it wouldn’t work, so I’m now planning to do this year by year, finishing in their Year 4 – Goblet of Fire – as Jon will be in his final year then. 
> 
> Coming up next – The Sorting.


	3. THE SORTING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor meets Jon, Robb and Ygritte. Sansa and Sandor are sorted into their Houses… Sansa makes a choice, and someone gets his just deserts.

**THE SORTING**

**Sandor**

Sansa kept trying to talk to him, and worse, it wasn’t the kind of talking that his father and his teachers had indulged in him, where he’d only need to let it wash over him and, later, when they insisted, do as they say. No. As far as he could tell, this girl was trying to pry. She had questions, and she wanted answers.

_Do you know what House you’d like to be sorted into? Where do you live? Do you like Quidditch? Which team do you support?_

It was downright disturbing, when it wasn’t coming from Eli, so he mumbled his way through all of them, and… what the fuck was Quidditch anyway? If it was about finding a quid in a ditch, then sign him up.

She, on the other hand, chirped away and answered all her own questions without reserve, as if she wasn’t afraid that someone could use her likes and dislikes against her, could burn away her hopes and dreams. She’d most likely be sorted into House Stark, she said, but it’s all up to the Sorting Ceremony, really, because everyone thought her father would be a Stark, but he got sorted into House Arryn instead, and that had been the right decision: her father was the most honourable man she had ever met. And she knew people in Gardener, who were just lovely. And Lannisters were brave, and who wouldn’t want to be known for their bravery? So wherever he was to end up, she was sure that it’d simply be _the best_. And oh, her family lived in the north, and it was great because the air’s so fresh, but the south was great too, because it was _so cold_ up north sometimes, so wherever he was from, she was sure that it was nothing less than lovely. And yes, Quidditch. _Everyone_ loved Quidditch! Her siblings were more into it than she was, but she did watch all of the matches too, and her family had been supporters of the Montrose Magpies for generations, so she supported them too, but there were so many great teams to support, and…

…he could have finished her sentence for her. No doubt it’d be a combination of _lovely_ and _great_ and _the best_. But he’d sealed his mouth with chocolate, and, truth be told, the sickly sweetness was starting to give him a headache.

She thought he was an idiot. That much was clear. The length of the words she employed to speak to him was shrinking by the minute. He wanted to tell her that he knew full well what condescending meant – and how to spell it too, courtesy to all those evenings spent with nothing for company but his mother’s library, before that was sold off too – but she fell silent just at that moment, and gazed around their compartment, looking a little lost. The sunlight drew a halo on her hair as they pulled into fields and fields of yellow and green.

Sandor sighed and settled for glaring at her instead. The kind that would send boys older than himself running. She flinched at that, and wriggled in her seat, but a heartbeat later, she spoke once more with that voice full of false-cheer.

‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’

Shit. Should have told her to fuck off after all.

Before he could open his mouth, there was a loud knock on the door before it slid open to reveal–

‘Jon!’ she cried.

The boy who must be Jon stepped into their compartment, and to his credit, the expression on his face remained a mix of solemn and guarded even as his eyes settled on Sandor’s scars. A snow white crow with blood red eyes looked down from his shoulders disapprovingly.

Behind Jon stood another, stockier boy with the same blue eyes as Sansa, though his hair was of a muddier red. On his shoulder stood a massive grey eagle. Another red-haired girl stood next to him, and Sandor was almost relieved to see that unlike Sansa, this girl was all freckles, crooked teeth, wild hair and scruffy boots. And no bird on her shoulder. Instead, Sansa’s pet bird flew past the three new intruders and landed back on Sansa’s shoulder.

‘Jon’s my cousin. This is my brother Robb, and this is Ygritte,’ said Sansa with a too-wide smile that revealed a sliver of her perfect, dainty teeth, as much as teeth could be dainty.

‘What’s going on?’ said Jon, dropping a bundle of robes in Sansa’s lap. ‘I guess he’s why you need a spare uniform?’

‘Oh yes! Thank you, you’re the best,’ said Sansa. ‘This is my friend.’

‘Your _friend_?’ said Robb. ‘How did you even… After what happened with Ba–’

‘We just want you to be a bit more careful,’ said Jon. ‘I’m not saying this for my sake, Sansa. It’s just that–’

‘Do you even know his name?’ said Robb.

Sansa’s bottom lip trembled, and instead of telling them all to fuck off and leave him alone, Sandor found himself saying instead, ‘Sandor Clegane.’

‘What?’

‘Sandor Clegane,’ said Ygritte. ‘That’s his name. Now that you know what it is, can we just go back to our seats and finish our game of Exploding Snap? I was about to blow all of you away.’

‘I thought I was winning,’ said Jon, with a frown.

‘That’s because, newsflash,’ said Ygritte, ‘you know nothing.’

‘But… how are we supposed to leave Sansa here?’ said Robb.

‘By walking out of here and closing the door,’ said Ygritte. ‘Oh come _on_. We’re going. Honestly. Stop overreacting to everything. He looks fairly harmless.’

Sandor was fairly certain that Ygritte was talking about him. He was also fairly certain that he’d misheard.

‘Look,’ Ygritte pushed on, ‘Grey Wind and Ghost haven’t pecked his eyes out yet. That’s usually a good sign. And if you’re worried about his face, there are only three possibilities. One: it was an accident, which doesn’t change anything. Two: he did it to himself, in which case he’s an idiot. Three: someone did it to him, and if that’s the case then he’s not the guy you need to worry about.’

‘He’s a Muggle-born,’ Sansa whispered loudly. ‘He doesn’t even know who you are.’

‘Oh look!’ said Ygritte, and bore her blue-grey eyes into his. ‘You’ve found someone who knows even less than you, Jon Snow.’

Robb and Jon were staring at him now as well, as if expecting him to comment upon Jon’s name.

‘What are you?’ he offered. ‘Named after the bloke from the Channel Four news?’

It must have been the right answer, because the boys nodded to each other, gave Sansa a squeeze on the shoulder and turned to leave.

As Robb turned around to slide the door shut behind him, he gave Sandor one last glare and said, ‘If you hurt my sister, I will turn you into a… a salmon and eat you alive.’

On that note, he disappeared from their compartment with a twirl of his robes.

‘I… I don’t think he’d actually do that,’ said Sansa. ‘Probably. It’s against the law, you see.’

He’d bloody well hope so. He hadn’t come this far only to become someone else’s dinner.

She pressed the bundle of clothes into his hands and said, ‘Try this on. If it doesn’t fit, we can sort it out before we get there!’

He shook out the crisp white shirt, dark grey jumper, starched black trousers, long black robe and plain black hat, each carefully labelled with the name ‘Eddison Tollett’.

Sansa let out a little squeak and bloomed into a pretty shade of pink when he peeled off his t-shirt, and squeezed her eyes shut. She was almost tolerable like this, flustered and not trying to grasp at pieces of his life, grasp at things that he didn’t want to offer anybody.

‘Does it fit?’ she said, sitting on her hands and rocking back and forth the way Eli used to, waiting for her turn to tear open their Christmas presents, back when they’d had presents for Christmas.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Her eyes flew open, and with a smile that was so bright it burned, she said, ‘Ooh, you look nice!’

He bit back the urge to laugh in her face, to call her out on her lie, and instead, he asked, ‘What’s Exploding Snap?’

Her eyes lit up at that, and they talked. They talked about safe and mundane things like card games and Jon Snow, the news guy from Channel Four who liked colourful socks and matching ties, about the chicken and ham sandwiches she’d bought them from the trolley, about cars and how she’d never been in one, and about how, to his horror, talking mirrors existed in the wizarding world. About how her engagement to his father’s best friend’s son, Joffrey, had just come to an abrupt end.

‘Isn’t that a good thing? So you can marry whoever you want?’

‘But I want to marry _him_ , and now I _can’t_!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because… because… I can’t do that! It will upset everyone.’

‘He’s not that important then, is he?’

‘That’s not true! It’s just that… Why can’t everyone just get along? Wizards and witches and Squibs and Muggle-borns?’

‘Because the world is awful.’

‘No it’s not!’

And somehow, they talked about Maiden, their beloved fluffy Samoyed who’d eaten at their table, who’d slept in Sandor’s bed. Then, one day, after his mother was no longer with them, Maiden had simply disappeared. No. Had simply been sold. Because Maiden was a beautiful pedigree dog, and would be worth something to a breeder. Because… Because. Sandor blinked and fixed his eyes on the horizon. It was getting dark now, and the train was slowing. Why the fuck was he telling her this?

‘Because…’ he concluded once more, ‘the world is awful.’

This time, she simply said, ‘Oh.’

When he looked at her again, her chestnut-coloured bird was standing on her outstretched hand. ‘Would you… Would you like to hold Lady?’ she said. ‘I know she’s not very fluffy at the moment, but her feathers are still quite soft. She likes to be petted on the top of her head and under her chin. You see, she’s actually a–’

The train lurched to a stop, and there was a screech as a voice echoed through the train, ‘We will be reaching Westeros shortly. Leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately. Just take your pets and your wands with you. First years, get ready to get off first. Professor Lannister is waiting for you outside. Don’t keep him waiting!’

A real life Lannister. Would he meet a real life Stark too, like the ones from his mother’s stories? All of a sudden, his mouth felt too dry, and his palms too sweaty. He hoped that Sansa wouldn’t notice.

‘Ahhhh…’ said Sansa, hopping from foot to foot like a little bird, sending a silvery pendant that she’d tucked into her shirt jingling. ‘I’m so nervous!’

They hopped onto the platform, and he was at once even more thankful for Eddison Tollett’s robes, because the air up north really had a biting chill in the evening. He’d have to find this Eddison later to give him his thanks.

‘This way, Sansa,’ said a man with cold, cold eyes who towered over all the first years. His shaved head gleamed under the moonlight, but golden, bushy whiskers covered his face. His dark red robes looks like it was made with real velvet and silk, and at his throat, he wore a golden pin in the shape of a lion.

‘Thank you Professor Lannister!’ said Sansa, flashing the man a smile.

The other first years were looking at her, he realised. They skimmed over his scars to steal glances at her, and she must have known too, because she laid a hand on his arm, drew her shoulders back and strode forth like a bloody queen, dragging him behind her, down a dark and narrow path, down, down, down. Never once did she stumble.

They took another turn, and the trees faded to reveal a great black lake, and… Oh. Under a night sky littered with stars stood a castle that could only be described as fucking massive. It had more turrets than he could count, and he squinted, hoping to catch sight of some machicolations or murder holes.

‘Four a boat,’ said Professor Lannister. ‘Sansa, you stay with me.’

A pretty, brown-haired girl tapped Sansa on the shoulder and slipped into the boat with them.

‘This is my best friend Jeyne,’ said Sansa. ‘And this is Sandor.’

 Jeyne flinched at his scars, but Professor Lannister… Professor Lannister seemed to appraise them. Sandor could see the specks of green in his eyes as he drew a little closer to… to assess the damage.

‘They don’t heal, do they, boy?’ said Professor Lannister, giving him a piercing look.

_The fireplace. The wand. Gregor, and...And the eyes in the flames, and… and… He couldn’t remember how to breathe._

Fingers dug into his wrist. A flurry of feathers. He blinked, and the moment was gone.

‘Oh no!’ said Sansa, untangling her fingers from his wrist. ‘Professor Lannister, Lady’s flown off, and she’s… picked… something up from the lake?’

Lady dropped a creature nearly as large as herself into the boat, and it landed near Professor Lannister’s foot with a loud plop and a ribbit.

‘It’s Boris!’ Sansa cried, clapping her hands together. ‘Aren’t you clever, Lady! Professor Lannister, isn’t Lady clever? She’s so good at flying already.’

‘Quite,’ said Professor Lannister, now fixing Sansa with the same piercing look, but Sansa simply smiled back blankly.

‘How are Myrcella and Tommen?’ she asked.

‘Both alive,’ said Professor Lannister. ‘I threw them out of the window just to make sure. They both survived.’

‘Oh. That’s… that’s good.’

‘Indeed. Tommen got very close to the ground and scraped his arms. It’s still keeping Cersei busy. Your younger siblings are all exhibiting signs, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes! Arya is… definitely able to use magic, and Bran keeps floating. And last time Jeyne came by, Rickon… _rearranged_ your hair, didn’t he?’ she said, turning to Jeyne.

‘Into a giant brown pile of… ice-cream,’ said Jeyne.

On that note, they glided through a curtain of ivy and pulled into a harbour. Professor Lannister led them all to the great doors of the castle, where Sandor, sadly, found no murder holes. Professor Lannister knocked three times on the castle door, and it swung open at once to reveal a man with a big smile and a bigger belly.

‘Welcome to Westeros,’ said the large man in a booming voice. ‘I’m your Deputy Headmaster, Wyman Manderly. You’ll have all met me on parchment. Now, come through here,’ he said, leading them into a small, empty chamber. ‘Before we can begin our start-of-term banquet – and I have personally overseen the menu for that, so there’s going to be a full roast with Yorkies, pork chops, lamb chops, beef, ale and marrow pies and curried mutton pies, chocolate eclairs, ice-creams, lemon cakes, and… Where was I? Oh yes, we will need you to go through the Sorting Ceremony in front of the rest of the school. Form a line now, and we’ll head into the Hall.’

Everyone shifted about, looking as anxious as he felt, except for Sansa, despite her earlier declaration that she was _so nervous_.

‘Don’t worry about it!’ she said to the boys and girls around her. ‘No one’s ever been turned away, and all four houses are great, so we’ll all be fine!’

He took his place behind her, and Professor Manderly pushed open a set of double doors and beckoned them into the Hall, which was… Sandor didn’t know where to look first. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, lighting up four long tables where hundreds of students sat and another right at the front of the room, where the teachers looked down at them. Above them, there was no ceiling, but a twinkling night sky. But more so than any of that, there were… well, they had to be ghosts, because they were see-through and floating. A lady ghost all in red with a blue face and no ears hovered above the table that was decked in the red and gold of the Lannisters. A boy ghost flew over the Arryns, and settled near the Gardener ghost, who looked covered in some sort of a rash. There, staring down at them all from the Stark table with a grim expression that reminded him of Jon’s, was a ghost with a twisted crown sitting on his mass of dark hair.

‘That’s the Night’s King,’ whispered Sansa. ‘And look! There’s a hat!’

There was, indeed, a hat in front of them all on a four-legged stool. It was patched-up and dirty with a large rip near the brim, and would look far less out of place on his head than Eddison Tollett’s neat black hat. The hat moved of its own accord, and the rip opened like a mouth. Sandor blinked. It was singing. The hat was singing.

‘ _Oh, you may not–_ ’

‘Can you just leave it at that?’ Professor Manderly said to the hat with a slap of his belly. ‘Everyone’s pretty hungry.’

‘But… I only get to sing once a year!’ said the hat.

‘Why don’t you sing while we’re eating instead?’ said Professor Manderly. ‘Just don’t sing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_. There are children here. Now everyone! I’ll call you up one by one in alphabetical order. Just put this old Sorting Hat on and he’ll tell you where to go, all right?’

‘Oh,’ whispered Sansa. ‘Jon and Robb told me you had to wrestle a troll! I’m so glad… I was worried that it’d ruin my clothes.’

‘Ambrose, Alyn,’ said Professor Manderly.

A gangly boy managed not to stumble as he made his way to the front and placed the hat on his head.

‘GARDENER!’ shouted the hat.

The other students in Gardener clapped, and their rashy-looking ghost waved at him with a slightly less pained expression than before.

‘Blackwater, Bronn!’

A dark-haired boy mock-bowed to the crowd and dropped the hat on his head.

‘LANNISTER!’

The Lannisters cheered and whooped as Bronn swaggered up to their table, hand held up for high fives.

‘Cerwyn, Cley!’

A boy with a friendly face walked past them and nodded his head in Sansa’s direction.

‘STARK!’

Cley’s smile grew even brighter at that, and he settled into a seat near Jon, Robb, Ygritte and the plump boy he’d spotted at King’s Cross earlier among a deafening round of applause and thumping on the table from the House Sandor was hoping to join.

And all too soon, Professor Manderly called out, ‘Clegane, Sandor!’

Sansa gave his arm a quick squeeze – touching came so easily to her – and said, ‘Good luck!’

The last thing he saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was her smile.

‘Hmmm,’ said a small voice in his ear, ‘Not a bad mind, I see. You don’t like lies and hold to your own code of honour. There’s talent and… Oh yes, a nice thirst to prove yourself. A desire to survive against all odds. Yes.’

‘Does that mean I’ll be a Stark?’ Sandor gripped the edges of the stool and prayed.

‘But courage,’ said the hat, in a deeper voice than before, ‘is the most important thing of all.’

‘Wait! I’m not brave… I… I’m afraid of fire,’ he thought, desperate to be sorted into Stark instead. He’d always dreamt of it. Why couldn’t the hat understand? But when had things truly gone his way? He should have known than to hope. Should have known that in the end, he’d become a…

‘LANNISTER!’ cried the hat.

He drew in a deep breath and took off the hat. No one clapped. In fact, no one was even looking at him. Instead, all eyes were on a blond boy with haughty eyes and plump, worm-like lips. The boy shook a twig out of his hair and snatched the hat out of Sandor’s hands.

‘Joffrey! What are you doing here?’ Sansa was running towards them.

Joffrey jammed the hat on his head, and with a groan, the hat said, ‘Joffrey Baratheon, you’re a Squib!’

‘You lying piece of shit!’ screamed Joffrey, flinging the hat onto the floor.

‘You’re hurting it!’ Sansa squeaked and dove down to pick it up, cradling the hat in her arm just as Joffrey swung his leg to stamp on the hat. His foot landed on Sansa’s hand with a horrible crunch.

Jon and Robb leapt up from their seats, but Sandor was closer. He yanked the boy away from Sansa by the collar and threw him to the ground.

**Sansa**

‘You hurt her!’ Sandor growled.

Sansa wanted to assure him that she wasn’t truly hurt, and it was all an accident, after all, but her breaths were coming in too fast, and her head was buzzing. She couldn’t quite feel her fingers in her wand hand, but that was probably for the best.

‘Get your hands off me you filthy Mud[ _censored_ ]!’

That… That couldn’t be the real Joffrey! The real Joffrey wouldn’t say such… such _awful_ things.

But… the Sorting Hat had called him Joffrey, and the Sorting Hat would know best. She swallowed her tears and tried to blink the scene before her back into focus.

Sandor towered over Joffrey, his neck and shoulders tense, as if he was about to take a swing at Joffrey at any moment.

She had to stop it. Had to stop it now.

‘Sansa, get him off me! What are you doing, stupid? You really are good for nothing, aren’t you?’

She clutched her wand, and every spell she’d ever learned from her books slipped away from her. She grasped for anything, _anything_ at all, and the last spell she’d glimpsed from one of Jon’s books floated into the forefront of her mind. Except… except…

‘ _Avis!’_ she cried, and traced out the wings of a bird with the tip of her wand.

A puff of red feathers rained down on Joffrey. It had never worked before. Why did she think it might work now, with her wand hand trembling so?

Joffrey’s green eyes grew wild. ‘Were you aiming it at _me_? Traitor! You can’t even make your spell work anyway! No better than a Squib, really, either of you!’ he cried, and held up a large, blackthorn wand with both hands. _Sandor’s wand_.

Of course. Sandor, being Muggle-born, didn’t understand the importance of guarding your wand. Wands chose their wizards, and each was one-of-a-kind. You could never find a replacement for your true wand. Joffrey knew. And Joffrey was going to snap Sandor’s wand in two…

‘ _Expelliarmus_!’ she cried, but the pain in her wand hand struck her all at once, and she dropped her own wand.

Joffrey laughed in her face, and bent Sandor’s wand a little further.

‘No! Don’t!’ She tried to scramble after her own wand. She had to stop it. Had to stop it, no matter what.

Lady took off from her shoulders and closed her talons around Sandor’s wand, then, in a shimmer, grew less feathered, more furred, and larger, larger, larger until she dwarfed Joffrey. With a swipe of her paw, she kicked the wand away from Joffrey and bared her teeth at him.

Joffrey screamed, and a girl from one of the tables screamed too, unable to see that Lady was, truly, a very friendly and harmless direwolf. Just a puppy that had become a little overgrown, really. She picked up Sandor’s wand. Even Sandor was staring at her with something close to horror on his face.

‘Here, your wand,’ she said, handing it back to him.

‘Is… Is your hand…?’

‘Oh, I think it’s probably broken. I’ll have to ask someone to cast _Brackium Emendo_ on it later. It’s my wand arm, so I won’t be able to do it myself,’ she explained.

‘Miss Stark,’ said Joer Mormont, clearing his throat, and, with a flourish of his wand, mended her hand, ‘would you care to call off your direwolf?’

‘Oh! Of course.’

_Lady, it’s all right now. Good save!_

_I’m a good girl!_ said Lady.

 _Who’s a good girl?_ she said, giving Lady a good scratch behind her ears.

_Me me me!_

Tywin lifted Joffrey from the floor, where a suspicious puddle had formed. ‘Leave this with me now, Sansa. He’ll never bother either of you ever again.’

‘Thank you Professor Lannister!’ she said, and Lady growled in agreement.

‘Now boy,’ Tywin said, turning to Sandor, ‘it’s time to take your seat.’

The Lannisters clapped and yelped for him this time. Sansa watched him sink into an empty spot by Bronn Blackwater, and waited, waited, and waited until the Sorting Hat declared, before she’d even had a chance to straighten it on her head, ‘STARK!’

The girls and boys from House Stark drummed the table and stomped their feet. Many even leapt to their feet. Robb and Jon pulled her into a hug, then Jeyne and Ygritte too.

‘I knew you’d make it!’ said Jeyne.

‘Arya said I might end up in Lannister,’ she said, not quite knowing why a tiny part of her was disappointed.

‘She’s just winding you up,’ said Jon.

‘What you did to Joff was amazing,’ said Robb. ‘I always knew you had it in you. I think you made him piss himself.’

Ygritte sighed and gave her a pat on the back. ‘Your friend got sorted into Lannister, didn’t he?’ she said softly.

She nodded.

‘You’ll just have to try harder then, if you want to stay friends,’ said Ygritte.

Oh. Ygritte was right. Ygritte was always right! They couldn’t sit together at mealtimes, and won’t be sharing a common room, but they’d have classes together, and she wasn’t going to let _anything_ get in the way of them sitting together for their classes.

She powered through her dinner with a new sense of purpose and polished off three servings of lemon cake, humming along to the Sorting Hat’s version of _Six Maids in a Pool_. She was so absorbed in her thoughts she hardly heard old Joer announce that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand-side was out of bounds to anyone who did not wish to die a painful death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Montrose Magpies is an HP Quidditch team based in Montrose (Scotland). In this AU, Winterfell isn’t far from there.   
> Ghost is in crow form for obvious reasons… I debated having him as a raven due to Mormont’s raven, but settled on crow because Summer is a raven. Grey Wind, on the other hand, feels like a predator, and eagles are associated with kings. (More notes on this on my tumblr.)
> 
> Exploding Snap is a card game in HP. 
> 
> Jon Snow is a British journalist/news guy on Channel 4. They do jokes about him and Jon Snow sometimes. (More notes on him will come later on my tumblr.)
> 
> The train announcement is a tweaked version of the one from the first HP book. And in HP, it’s Hagrid who collects the first years, and passes them onto Professor McGonagall – a better alternative really.
> 
> So… in the boat, for non-HP fans, Legilimency is a bit like mind-reading, and Occlumency is a way to make your mind blank so that it can’t be read. All the Stark children are very good at Occlumency. Reasons to follow. 
> 
> Alyn Ambrose is betrothed to Elinor Tyrell, who’s about the same age as Sansa, so I’ve put him in the same year as Sansa here, as a parallel to Hannah Abbott, who gets sorted into Hufflepuff. 
> 
> ‘Not a bad mind,’ and ‘nice thirst to prove yourself’ are things that the Sorting Hat says to Harry. The whole section is a close adaptation to the bit in HP canon. 
> 
> Avis is a bird-conjuring spell that Hermione uses in Goblet to shoot a flock of yellow birds from her wand, so it’s really high level magic, and not something a first year would be able to master. That’s why Sansa only manages feathers. Expelliarmus (for non-HP-fans) is a disarming spell, and would have shot the wand out of Joff’s hands. 
> 
> The third floor corridor announcement is more or less from HP canon. 
> 
> I’ll be putting some notes for this fic on my tumblr: emmsisi.tumblr.com  
> There’s one on the direwolves in this AU at the moment. Will be adding more later. 
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading, and thank you so much for the kudos and comments!! Next up: The Potions Master and the Transfiguration Professor. I'll be updating Harrenhal first, and will get back to this one shortly!


	4. THE TRANSFIGURATION PROFESSOR AND THE POTIONS MASTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor sees his room and Sansa thinks about love (and eyes).

**THE TRANSFIGURATION PROFESSOR AND THE POTIONS MASTER**

**Sandor**

‘They stole the portrait of the Fat Lady!’

The Lannister prefect was a boy with sandy-gold hair and arrogant green eyes called Lancel Lannister who resembled Joffrey a little too much for Sandor’s liking. And yes, Lancel had introduced himself with the emphasis on _Lannister,_ unlike the Stark girl he’d spent nearly a whole day talking to. Fuck. Weren’t Starks supposed to be have dark hair and grey eyes, be grim and like… like _winter_? Like that cousin she’d introduced him to. Not all brightness and sunshine, chirping like a little bird from the some summery isles.

‘They stole her!’ Lancel said again, and flung his arms out dramatically at a huge portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

‘It’s right there in front of you,’ said Sandor. His stomach was so full that he didn’t feel an overwhelming need to swear at Lancel and call him blind.

‘No, no, no! That’s a portrait of our matron, Madam Frey! The Fat Lady is a… very fat… lady in a… pink silk dress. But not that one!’

‘Sorry Lancel,’ said the portrait, giving them all a watery smile.

‘Did you see who did it?’ said Lancel.

‘I’m afraid not. They kept me covered, you see…’

‘I bet it was the Starks!’ said Lancel. ‘It’s always the Starks. They’re always out to get us, just because we won the Quidditch Cup last year. I bet it was Prince and Giantsbane. They always look like they’re up to no good. It’s got to be–’

There was a loud cough behind them. Sandor turned and looked up, and up, and up at one of the tallest boys he had ever met, save Gregor. He was a mass of muscles and freckles, and his straw-coloured hair looked like hay that’d been chewed on by a horse. His wide blue eyes looked utterly out of place on the rest of his face, full of coarse lines and harsh angles, and they looked bluer still with the striped tie that marked him as an Arryn, and the blue prefect badge neatly pinned to his chest. A painting of another fat lady in a pink silk dress floated behind him, and he waved his wand to set it down.

‘Lannister,’ said the… girl? The boy had to be a girl, with a voice like that.

‘Tarth,’ said Lancel, looking less pleased by the second.

‘My apologies. Two of our girls thought it’d be funny to swap the portraits. I have already deducted twenty house points from them. I have also brought them here to apologise to you. Keeping students, including first years, from their bed after such a long and tiring day is hardly funny,’ said Tarth.

‘Come on, it was pretty funny,’ mumbled another girl sporting a blue and grey striped tie, though this one was obviously a girl despite the shortness of her coal-black hair.

‘If you’re not going to apologise, then–’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m sorry. I apologise. Just don’t deduct any more house points from us. Seriously. I’ve never even seen us win the House Cup. It’s always the Lannisters or the Starks.’

‘You too,’ said Tarth, jabbing her finger at another girl, half-hidden behind the painting. ‘Apologise for… Where’s your tie?’

That shouldn’t have been Tarth’s prime concern regarding the third girl, because the top three buttons of her shirt were also missing. The top of her black lacy bra was doing far more than peeking out. The girl shrugged and said, ‘It’s nearly time for bed, and I like to sleep with all my clothes off.’

‘Royce! Stop that at once. There are first years present,’ said Tarth. ‘Where’s your honour?’

‘Hidden deep inside,’ said Royce, and batted her lashes at Lancel. ‘Maybe you’d like to help me findAHHHH–’

Her voice trailed off as Tarth threw her over her massive shoulder and strode away with the black-haired girl in tow.

‘Right…’ said Lancel, adjusting his robes so that it covered his crotch. ‘Now that we have our portrait back, I can finally tell you the password and show you to your rooms. Remember it well, because you won’t be able to get into the common room without it. Audi my buggery!’

‘Audi your what?’ said Sandor.

 _‘Audi me rugire!_ ’ said Lancel, giving him a look of disgust. ‘Hear me roar.’

The portrait swung forth to reveal a small round hole on the wall. He scrambled through it after the boy who’d been sorted before him, whose facial expression seemed to be frozen in a permanent smirk. _Blackwater, Bronn_. As the girls disappeared into their own dorms, and the boys were directed into their rooms five at a time, the sinking feeling grew. Bronn was still there, shuffling after Lancel just like he was, until, at last, it was just the two of them.

‘This will be your room,’ said Lancel, shoving them inside, and walked off wiping his hands on his trousers, as if he’d just touched the insides of a bin.

Bronn whistled. He had good cause to. Two mahogany wardrobes, bureaus, and book shelves lined the walls, all decorated with golden lion cabinet knobs. Two four-poster beds stood at either end of the room, draped in deep red and velvet curtains. And in the middle of it all was a grand piano. Sandor’s bag for life had been dumped on the piano stool.

‘Do you play?’ said Sandor.

Bronn snorted. ‘Grade ten, aren’t I?’

The other boy swung his trunk open with a click and flung a West Ham poster, a set of burgundy PJs and a blank piece of parchment onto the bed he’d claimed as his.

Well fuck. Sandor’s bag for life was absolutely devoid of pyjamas. It was cheaper to do without, and it wasn’t as if he’d ever been invited to a sleepover. He dug out his old grey t-shirt and hoped it’d be good enough. All he wanted to do was to sink into that soft, feather bed and sleep ‘til morning, but Bronn seemed to have other ideas.

Unfolding that yellowing piece of parchment, Bronn pointed his wand at it and said, ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ said Sandor, feeling like the idiot that he most likely was.

‘Working,’ said Bronn. Spidery letters and lines blossomed across the parchment, and at the very top, it said,

 _‘Messrs Firebreath, Starfall and Griff_ (a different handwriting had scrawled ‘ _And Croaker_ ’ here, but it had been crossed out with thick black ink)

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present…_

_THE MARAUDER'S MAP’_

On the map, hundreds of dots moved among lines that depicted rooms and corridors. He found himself easily enough, next to the dot that was ‘Bronn Blackwater’. Down in the dungeons, where the Stark quarters were located, he found Sansa Stark’s dot next to her friend, Jeyne Poole’s.

‘Checking up on your girlfriend?’

‘What? Fuck off, I–’

‘Don’t tell me to fuck off when you’re looking at my map,’ said Bronn. ‘Got to say, you’ve set your sights a little high if you ask me. Starks are nice enough to Muggleborns like us, but when it comes down to it, it’s going to be someone like him.’ He tapped on a dot in House Gardener by the name of Loras Tyrell. ‘Now that,’ he said, pointing at another dot labelled Lollys Stokeworth, ‘is what you call a meal ticket.’ Then he frowned and studied Sandor as if the scars weren’t even there. ‘You are Muggleborn, aren’t you? Old Tywin likes Muggleborns like us. He can shape us into whatever he needs. Bet he’s going to give you your own little toy and own little mission soon enough, if he’s roomed you with me.’

‘How comes you know so much about wizards then?’ said Sandor.

‘Been trained by old Tywin for a year now,’ said Bronn. ‘Been living at his fancy mansion, eating his fancy food.’

‘He adopted you?’

Bronn snorted again. ‘If you’re looking for a father figure, better try something a bit more caring, like a pit viper. But I’ll tell you what,’ he said, rubbing his fingers and thumb together, ‘that guy is _loaded_. He owns the whole of Diagon Alley, which is like Oxford Street for the wizard folk.’

‘What’s that kind of guy doing as a teacher?’ said Sandor.

‘Cos shit is going _down_ ,’ said Bronn. ‘Now where the hell is he? Aha, there we go.’ He must have found who he was looking for, because he took out a pen and pad and noted down the time and a location, then said, ‘Mischief managed.’ The parchment turned blank once more, and folded in on itself.

‘Who’re you stalking?’ said Sandor.

‘Call it being a detective,’ said Bronn. ‘Got my eyes on the Potions Master. Tywin thinks that guy is up to some shady shit.’

**Sansa**

Sansa had spent all her stolen moments between lessons writing to Arya, even though she’d only blanked her sister for one entire day instead of three, but Arya had written first, if only to tell her that Jon’d written to say how _amazing_ Sansa was for what she’d done to Joffrey and how Mother was going into full paranoia mode after a break-in at the Iron Bank, and it’d be rude not to reply.

Before she knew it, she was telling Arya all about the all lessons they’d had so far. In History of Magic with Professor Aemon, she’d caught many students falling asleep, but she’d loved every moment, and had taken nearly nine pages of notes. She’d excelled in Charms with Professor Manderley, and Transfiguration with Professor Lannister, and was even called up to demonstrate – her _Wingardium Leviosa_ had been no less than perfect, and the feather had floated beautifully. Herbology with Professor Tyrell was never going to be her favourite, because her hands would get so dirty repotting all the plants and fungi, but the old lady was so very sweet to her, that it was almost like being taken care of by a grandmother she’d never had.

Then there was Defence Against Dark Arts with Theon. It still felt so odd thinking about him as anything other than Robb’s friend and calling him Professor Greyjoy instead of Theon, but the year he’d spent after graduating to find his roots had, indeed, changed him, because he insisted upon wearing a silly red bandana and a black oversized pirate hat emblazed with a golden kraken on top of it wherever he went. Sansa had tried to hint to him when she passed him in the corridor, tactfully of course, that a classic black pointy hat would suit the shape of his face a lot more, but he’d been too busy staring at Margaery Tyrell, who was walking past with her brother Loras.

Sansa had stared too, simply because she’d never seen a boy as beautiful as Loras.

‘I’d give up my dearest Beric for him,’ Jeyne’d said.

 _Sansa_ would never give up her one true love for anyone, not even someone with eyes like liquid gold. She sighed. Now that Joffrey had broken her heart into a thousand pieces, each of which had to be very small, considering the size of a human heart, she was finding it near impossible to appreciate Loras’s beauty in full. Perhaps she would never love again.

With another sigh, as they waited for the Potions Master to arrive, she told Arya all about the friend she’d made all by herself, and how she and Sandor were still the best of friends despite being sorted into different houses.

The reality, however, was that she’d only been able to sit with him in the first lesson they’d had together, which was Charms. She’d given him Robb’s old first year books, and he’d hardly minded, despite some being older editions, and all being second hand. Unfortunately Sandor did _not_ excel at Charms, for his Latin pronunciation was… was – there was really no polite way to say this – atrocious. She had to spend the whole lesson helping him achieve a passable pronunciation of _Leviosa_. How could it be so awful? Sansa simply didn’t understand how he could have gone through eleven years of his life without Latin.

‘Do Muggles learn Ancient Greek at school instead then? Γηράσκω δ' αἰεὶ πολλά διδασκόμενος,’ she’d said, offering her favourite phrase in Ancient Greek. She did so love the classics!

After that, she’d always find him sitting with another Lannister boy called Bronn instead, on the other side of the classroom. She didn’t want to give up, but the words that Arya had said during their last argument, throwing hurtful words at each other, burned through her mind once more. She’d accused Arya of being adopted, which was nonsense, and Arya had said, ‘No one will ever like you for _you_!’ Which was not entirely nonsense.

‘What are you doing?’ said…

‘Sandor!’ She beamed at him, and it was only her aching cheeks that alerted her to the fact that she was smiling far too widely. It would not do to smile with so much teeth, not that there was anything wrong with her teeth. It was simply not ladylike.

‘Can I sit with you?’ he said.

She pinched herself just to make sure this wasn’t a dream. He’d never been the one to ask! And yes, Bronn was in the class too, off to the corner, chatting to some other boys. Oh, Sandor had really chosen to sit with her!

‘Of course,’ she said, and started to fold away her letters to Arya.

‘You’ve written a lot,’ said Sandor.

‘I’m writing to my sister Arya,’ said Sansa.

‘You’re… very close?’

He was making conversation! She was starting to like today better than she liked Christmas.

‘Oh no, not at all,’ she said. It was difficult to explain, really. ‘We don’t get on at all! She’s… definitely the worst sibling you can possibly imagine.’

He stiffened then, and turned away from her. ‘Doubt it,’ he said.

Her heart fell, but before she could ask him what was wrong, the Potions Master walked into the classroom, register in hand.

She’d seen him from afar, sitting beside the matron, Madam Frey. If Loras was the sun, then Professor Snow was the moon. He had black, silky hair, silver eyes and a quiet air about him. And so mysterious! She wondered if he’d been deprived of a proper family name, like Jon, or if he’d chosen to cast his family away. There were wizards who did that out of shame, after their families sided with the self-titled Red King.

He went through the register and paused at her name, giving her a ghost of a smile. Silver eyes were better than gold, Sansa decided. But Sandor almost seemed to growl at the poor Professor, until he looked away from her and asked them to get into pairs to brew the Forgetfulness Potion.

Sandor worked away by her side, sprinkling the Valerian sprigs into their cauldron and crushing the mistletoe berries while she did the stirring and wand waving. From now and again, he’d look up and glare and Professor Snow.

Professor Snow never looked at her again, not even when they were the only pair to bottle the perfect, blush-pink potion by the end of the class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancel is only a year older than Jon and Robb in the books… which makes the whole Cersei business even more disturbing. He’s in the fifth year here.
> 
> Brienne is around 18, so she’s in the final year (seventh year) here. I’ve put her in Arryn because she’s Brienne the Blue in the Rainbow Guard, and As High as Honour kind of suits her. In HP, prefects are from fifth years, sixth years and seventh years, and one male and one female from each year. 
> 
> For non-HP fans, the Fat Lady is the portrait that guards the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, and is ‘a very fat woman in a pink silk dress’.
> 
> The Tywin and viper thing is from Ned’s thoughts: Ned would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin, but he left his doubts unspoken.
> 
> Sansa’s favourite phrase is from Solon the Athenian, one of the seven Sages: I’m growing old but I’m always learning/being taught many things.
> 
> I picked the Forgetfulness Potion because I think there’s a lot of language of flowers going on in the HP universe. This is a first year/beginner’s level potions, and the flower ingredients are Valerian (which means being accommodating) and mistletoe (which is love and affection), so it kind of suits Sansa and Sandor. 
> 
> So yeah, thanks for your patience waiting for this chapter… And loving all the lovely comments + kudos! The main villain of this story is the Red King (paralleling the Dark Lord) – I guess it’s not much of a secret who that’d be? 
> 
> Next up is The Hound, featuring Tywin’s plans for Sandor. I can’t promise regular updates, as this is my side fic, but will try to update again before the end of the month! If you want the full staff list at the school, I’ve put it up on my tumblr.


	5. THE HOUND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying lesson, dog, and troll.

**THE HOUND**

**Sandor**

Avoiding the Stark girl in all but Potions – he couldn’t leave her to gawk at the Potions Master, when he knew the dangers and she didn’t – wouldn’t be so fucking painful if Bronn would just stop casually mentioning her whereabouts every time he got that bloody map out to stalk his target.

‘Oh look, she’s walking down the corridor with Harrold Hardying again. He must be showing her the way.’

To the grounds outside? Because that was where they were to have their first flying lesson, and as confusing as the rest of Westeros was at times, it was bloody obvious that to get outside, you’d simply need to head outside.

‘Have you thought about swapping Sansa for Saffron?’ said Bronn. ‘She’s Muggleborn as well, like us, but boy is her family _loaded_. Don’t believe me? Just hit up Forbes. Chemicals, it said. Last time I checked, it was billions in the double digits.’

‘I’m not swapping Sansa for anyone,’ said Sandor, ‘because there’s fuck all going on in the first place.’

He picked up his pace as they stepped outside, and soon they took their places beside a row of twenty or so neatly lined broomsticks on the lawn just outside the Godswood Forest, which almost seemed to whisper at them in the gentle breeze.

The Starks arrived soon after, and Sansa shuffled to his side with her friend Jeyne in tow, looking more cheerful than anyone had a right to upon seeing his scars on full display.

‘Hello Sandor! And hello again Bronn! Isn’t it a lovely afternoon? Perfect weather for flying, really. Are you looking forward to it? They say it’s like riding a horse. They can sense it if you’re nervous…’ The girl jabbered on, wringing her hands together. ‘Have you ever ridden a horse? I tried it once, and broke my wrist… Fun fact! The flying teacher is my aunt… Though… I guess that fact isn’t all that fun. Ummm… New fun fact! In the restoration of Summerhall, they found a small, unburnt patch on the ground, and no one knows what it could have been… which… well… is kind of fun, as a fact. Where is my aunt anyway? She should be here by now. Where, oh where, oh where…’

‘Are you… nervous?’ said Sandor.

‘They can _sense_ it if you’re nervous…’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’ve just said that.’

‘Oh… Fudgelemons,’ she said, and raised her hand to her mouth as if she’d just said something much worse than _fuck_. ‘I’m going to die… I can’t even fly straight on Father’s old _Winterlands_ or Mother’s _Sandsteed 2000_. The school brooms shake anyway, and veer slightly to the left. I’m going to die… I’m going to–’

‘…DIE!!!’ screeched a chinless woman sweeping in on a blue and silver broom. She wore her hair in a thick braid. It was nearly the same shade as Sansa’s, except it looked brittle and dry. She flew over their heads, close enough for Bronn to peak at the woman’s underwear – ‘Cream,’ Bronn’d whispered – and for the air to smell thick of sickly sweet perfume.

‘My baby’s going to die!!!’ she cried. There were trails of tears coursing down her face, where the layers of powder had washed away.

‘What’s happened?’ said Sansa.

‘A fit! My poor Sweetrobin has just had a fit. He’s recovering and lying down now, but I can’t be away from him! Someone… You!’ She pointed at Jeyne. ‘Go fetch another professor. In the meantime… Sansa! You know how I teach! You teach them!’

‘But I… I…’

The woman gave Sansa a shove and said, ‘Go on. Fly!’

Before Sansa could protest again, the woman had disappeared into nothing but a black dot in the sky.

‘I… I…’ Sansa closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. When she turned around to face the rest of their year, it was with a wobbly smile on her face. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Has everyone got a broom?’

Bronn kicked one over to Sandor, snapping one of the twigs sticking out on the side.

‘Now hold your right hand over your broom and say, “UP!”’

‘ _UP_!’ everyone cried with Sansa.

Sandor’s and Bronn’s jumped into their hands at once, while Sansa’s made half-hearted ascent. The only other brooms that obeyed the command were that of a Stark boy with odd green eyes – Jojen Reed, if he remembered rightly – and a Gardener boy with coal-black hair – an Edric Storm. Most of the other brooms merely rolled over on the ground, and a few made no movement at all, like the ones by one of the moon-faced boy’s sister’s feet – one of the Tarlys, though he couldn’t quite recall her name.

‘I will come and help you if you can’t get it to work,’ said Sansa. ‘You can try again by yourself as well. If you have managed it though… this is how you sit on a broom.’ She threw her leg over and showed them the correct grip, and explained that to take off, you’d simply kick against the ground, while to land was as easy as leaning forwards, no Latin or wand-waving involved. ‘Don’t go too far,’ she said to them. ‘Just try and fly a few feet off the ground and come back down.’

Bronn smirked at Sandor in the way that set his teeth on edge, and said, ‘Race you to those trees!’

They both kicked against the ground, hard, and in no time, Sandor was soaring in the sky. The wind ripped at his hair, exposing his scars, but up here, who cared? He leaned forward and gripped the broom with both hands. The broom shot towards the trees, yards ahead of Bronn, and above the howling of the wind, he heard Sansa shout, ‘I said just a few feet!’

‘A hundred is still a few!’ he shouted. He wasn’t about to turn back now! This… This was what he was born to do. He laughed – an unfamiliar feeling – and at the same time, Bronn’s broomstick knocked into him. He lost his grip on the broom, and heard a gasp from the others below, but it didn’t matter, because it was easy enough to keep his balance with just his legs. He steered the broom towards the trees again, sparing a two-handed wave at a wide-eyed Sansa, and he–

‘SANDOR CLEGANE AND BRONN BLACKWATER!’

His heart dropped nearly as quickly as he and Bronn dived back to the ground. Professor Lannister glared at them both, while Jeyne shifted uncomfortably behind him.

‘You could have both broken your necks,’ said Professor Lannister. ‘Do you know how much paperwork is involved to file for one student death on site, much less two? Both of you, in my office, now!’

‘But… Professor Lannister…’ said Sansa, whose face had turned ashen at the mention of broken necks, ‘what about the lesson?’

‘You’re doing fine. Carry on, and try not to lose anyone else.’

Professor Lannister merely stopped on the way to ask an older Lannister boy to summon Marbrand, whoever that might be, and strode on at speed. Sandor and Bronn trailed behind the professor in silence. What could they do to him anyhow? Call his parents? His mother was dead, and if his father had ever had fucks to give, it must have gotten lost beneath their saggy brown sofa years ago.

There was no saggy brown sofa in sight in Professor Lannister’s office, only two wine-red leather armchairs. He gestured both Sandor and Bronn into the chair on the left, so that they were both left hovering uncomfortably on the armrests, and turned to take his own seat behind a mahogany desk with a golden statue of a lion resting on the upper right corner, acting as a paperweight. Professor Lannister spared an almost gentle smile at a painting of a beautiful woman in red, with the same golden hair and cat-green eyes as Professor Lannister himself, then turned back to the two of them. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and neither smiled nor spoke, but merely stared at them both as if they were maggot-infested food waste that’d been dragged out into the open by a bloody fox.

Sandor had never been one for apologies, but an overwhelming need to fill the silence with an uttered ‘sorry’ washed over him. He opened his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by a polite, uncertain knock.

‘Come in,’ said Professor Lannister.

A tall boy with rangy, shoulder-length copper hair strode, dashing them both an easy smile.

‘Good afternoon professor,’ said the boy. ‘You asked for me?’

Professor Lannister pointed at Sandor and Bronn. ‘Got you a Beater and a Chaser.’

‘First years?’ said the boy, raising a brow as he laid eyes on Sandor. ‘Well, if _he_ ’s the size he is as a first year and can fly half as well as Lyle, then he’s going to make a great Beater.’

‘He’s better than Lyle,’ said Professor Lannister, sparing not a single look at either of the boys he was discussing. ‘Got speed. Very good balance. Once they’re both trained up, we might actually stand a chance against that Year Four Stark team.’

‘Wait…’ said Sandor. Somehow it didn’t sound like they were in trouble. Instead, the two of them were being signed up to some flying activity that he didn’t quite understand. ‘What’s a Beater?’

The older boy blinked. ‘Oh! Muggleborns… Of course. I’m Addam Marbrand,’ he said, ‘Captain of the Lannister Quidditch Team. A Beater is… Well, I have to say it’s not the most glamourous position on the team. Most people are fans of Seekers, and if not, Chasers, but Beaters are the foundation to all good Quidditch teams… You’ll be the one batting away the Bludgers from our team and trying to hit them at the other team, you see. You’ll need to be able to fly hands-free, and with all that batting going all throughout the match, you’ll need both speed and endurance in both your legs and arms. It’s not easy… Sometimes you’ll need to guard our Seeker, even if you’ll get hit by a Bludger yourself. Sometimes you’ll need to crowd the other team’s Seeker… Find a way to take him out. But don’t worry! I’ll give you all the training you’ll need. You can even talk to Tarth. She plays for the Arryns, but she’s pretty happy to help out any Beater, to be honest.’

Turning to Bronn, Addam said, ‘And a Chaser–’

‘I know what a Chaser is,’ said Bronn. ‘Sign me up!’

‘Great!’ said Addam, clapping his hands together. ‘Professor Lannister, can I take them now?’

‘Take that one,’ said Professor Lannister, waving his hand at Bronn. ‘I still have other business to take care of with this one.’

Sandor’s heart dropped again. Was he still in trouble somehow? Wasn’t it enough that he’d signed his life away to hit and be hit by Bludgers, whatever the buggering hell they might be? Bronn gave Sandor a thumbs-up as he followed Addam out of the office, though for once, there was no smirk on his face.

‘Go now, Joanna,’ Professor Lannister said to the woman in the painting. She nodded and waved goodbye. ‘Now,’ he said, with another piercing stare at Sandor. Being alone in a room with Professor Lannister was almost as bad as being locked up with Gregor. ‘Take out your wand, Clegane, and attack me.’

‘I… What?’

‘You heard me. You’ve learned some spells now, haven’t you? I know that progress has been… painfully slow. While students like Sansa Stark have truly excelled, you have fallen behind.’ Sandor winced at the professor’s words. That was partly why he was avoiding the girl, wasn’t it? The last time he’d felt quite as so fucking helpless was with his face pressed into the fire. ‘But you must know some spells by now. Attack me. Show me.’

So far, he’d only learned _Lumos_ and _Wingardium Leviosa_. Lighting his wand wasn’t going to be much of an attack on the professor, so he waved his wand in the curving trail that Sansa had done in the lessons, and prayed that the lion paperweight would lift from the table.

He smiled as it hovered off the table, and was just figuring out how to manoeuvre it in the professor’s direction when a red light hit him, and with it, it was as if a thousand burning knives had been pressed against every inch of his skin. The pain was everywhere. Inside his head. Inside his lungs… He couldn’t draw breath. Couldn’t call out. Couldn’t…

And all of a sudden, it was gone. He collapsed into a heap on the floor, and looked into Professor Lannister’s cold, hard eyes.

‘As I thought,’ said the professor. ‘Weak.’

That hurt almost as badly as the spell. Sandor dug his nails into the lush red and gold carpet, hating, hating, _hating–_

‘But… I have a present for you,’ said Professor Lannister. He waved his wand, and a clang of metal filled the room, until a suit of armour came to a stop in front of Sandor.

The armour was soot-dark, and glowed with even darker shapes scrawled all over the surface. But what truly drew the eye was the helm. It was shaped like three snarling dogs. Two stared menacingly to the sides, while the third would close over the wearer’s face.

He reached a hand towards it, and dark tendrils blazed off the armour, leeching the warmth from his skin.

‘Why don’t you try putting it on?’ said the professor.

‘I’m not sure…’ Not sure how to put on a suit of armour. And not sure if he should put on this particular suit. It was as if the armour was waiting to swallow him whole, waiting to… to…

The visor opened, and the breastplate floated towards him. The armour seemed to shrink as it approached him, as it touched him with its cold darkness.

 _Hound_ , the armour seemed to whisper. _Hellhound_.

One by one, the straps tightened around him, until his chest was filled with cold, and power.

Power. The power was intoxicating.

At last, the helm dropped over his head, hiding his scars, hiding the boy within.

Within. No fear existed within. No half-burnt and shivering child. There was only a creature of darkness, a creature of legends, and nightmares.

‘ _Crucio_ ,’ said Professor Lannister. But this time, when the red light struck him, the dark tendrils of the armour reached out and made it its own. There was no pain left for Sandor, only the numbing coldness of the armour, and the power, the power that seemed to surge as the spell struck him.

Everything seemed so easy now. He only needed to lift a finger to make the darker-than-night symbols on the armour burn with a deeper black. _Runes_ , said the voice in the armour. This time, it was Professor Lannister who crumpled into a heap on the carpet.

 _We are strong_ , said the Hound.

Professor Lannister rubbed at his temples, unperturbed for someone who’d just suffered defeat, and said, ‘Very good. I have some use for you now, and I believe you have some use for coin, Clegane?’

At that, the visor opened, and Sandor stared out.

‘It’s a simple matter,’ said the professor. ‘Tomorrow morning, the Headmaster is going to make an announcement, forbidding all students and teachers from entering a section of the third floor corridor. I want you to store this armour in a spare room in that corridor, and every night after all the other students have gone to bed, you are to put on the armour and stand guard over a trap door. You are to remove it in the morning and go to your classes as usual, and you are not to mention this to anyone except your roommate Bronn. If anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , tries to open that trap door, stop them… _kill_ them… even if that someone were to look exactly like me. For your services, you will receive a compensation of fifty galleons per evening.’

‘Fifty galleons…’ echoed Sandor. The Hound’s armour flew off, piece by piece, to stand by his side. That’d mean it’d be only a week before he could afford all the uniform he’d been asked to buy in his acceptance letter, before he could finally return the ones he’d borrowed from Eddison Tollett.

‘And it’d mean a month of savings before you could go buy yourself the latest Sandsteed,’ said Professor Lannister, as if reading his mind. ‘Though for your build, I’d recommend sticking with Winterlands. It’s heavier to manoeuvre, but agility doesn’t just come from the broom itself.’

‘But… when will I sleep?’ said Sandor, feeling the boy he was once more. Not that sleep truly mattered when there was fifty galleons a night at stake.

‘You’ll find sleep unnecessary once you start wearing the armour,’ said the professor.

*

Professor Lannister was right. He really didn’t need sleep.

He returned the robes to Eddison Tollett as soon as he could.

‘Just my luck,’ said the older boy, wearing a face of gloomy resignation. ‘I told my mother I’d misplaced those robes. If you were just a day later in returning it, she was going to make me spend the dress robes money she’d saved to buy me a new set of uniform instead. Now I’m going to have to buy the dress robes instead.’

‘Isn’t that… a good thing?’ said Sandor.

‘Don’t worry about it, Clegane,’ said Jon. ‘We call him Dolorous Edd for a reason.’

‘I’m going to have to wear that dress robe to my matchmaking,’ said Eddison, shaking his head. ‘My mother has found me a pretty girl of my age from a better bloodline to meet. I just know she’ll have a horrible personality.’

‘There’s always the off chance you’ll get on,’ said Jon.

‘Then she’ll most likely die in the new war before we can be wed.’

The war. Sandor tried to find out more about it, and Bronn was all too willing to share, if only to hear the sound of his own voice.

On the one side, there was the supposedly defeated Red King, also known as – Sandor remembered with a snort – King Noosebolort. Just because the name had ‘noose’ in it didn’t make it sound deadly or frightening. On the other, there was Jon Snow, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. They were both soldiers now, he and Bronn, and working for Professor Tywin Lannister was a privilege, because there was no man as feared by the Red King’s followers. After all, he’d led the decimation of the Reynes of Castamere and the Tarbecks of Tarbeck Hall after the heads of both families sided with the Red King. As soon as the Red King returned, they’d be ready to take him down.

So each night, he donned his armour with a new sense of purpose. And he truly didn’t need sleep.

*

The only one who didn’t seem to think so was the Stark girl.

‘Are you… are you really all right, Sandor?’ Her chirping was getting increasingly unbearable, but still he sat with her in Potions. He had to keep her safe. It was important, somehow.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ he said, scowling at her.

‘It’s just… you look unhappy,’ she said. ‘And you don’t speak as much as you used to.’

‘Always brightness and sunshine, wasn’t I?’ he said. ‘A right chatterbox too.’

‘That’s not what I… I just…’ She heaved a sigh and drew something out of her bag. ‘This is for you! Congratulations on getting into the Lannister Quidditch squad! We’re rivals, I know, but still… you’re my friend, and I wanted you to have this though I’ll be cheering for the Starks if we play against each other.’

It was a pair of leather gloves, lined with a soft and supple material in red and gold.

‘You don’t need to give me stuff all the time,’ he said. ‘I can afford to–’

But she was speaking at the same time. ‘Is it a good fit? I made them, so…’

‘Wait, you made them?’

She nodded.

‘As in… with a needle?’

‘I make pillowcases for Old Nan and Mordy too,’ she said. ‘Old Nan and Mordy are our house-elves, but they’re practically family! Mordy taught me how to sew. You should meet them some day! Old Nan knows loads of stories. I think you’ll like her.’

There was a knot in his chest, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He pulled on the gloves. The fit was perfect.

‘Thank you,’ he said. The words tasted unfamiliar on his tongue.

She flashed him a smile, so bright that he had to fight the urge to look away, and squeezed his arm.

‘That’s better!’ she said.

Then Professor Snow sauntered in and called for the class to start.

They worked away, side by side, on the cure for boils, and all the while, the spot where she’d touched glowed warm, so different from the coldness of the armour.

Still, each night, he donned his armour.

*

It was after Quidditch practice one morning when Bronn extracted his map again, humming a fucking annoying off-key tune as he did so, and said, ‘Oooh, Sansa Stark is–’

‘I don’t give a fuck where she is,’ he said. The session had gone well, and it’d go even better once he had a better broom, but still, he felt a need to growl at the fact that Lancel Lannister was on their team, all too eager to make flashy moves instead of keeping to the formations that Addam Marbrand was having them practise. ‘Can you stop giving me updates about her? We’re not even friends, for fuck’s sake, and–’

Someone brushed past them at a run. The auburn of her hair was all too familiar.

‘I was going to tell you she’s right behind us,’ said Bronn.

‘So what?’ said Sandor. Other words caught in his throat.

*

Sansa was missing from lessons all morning, and all afternoon.

He searched for her among the Starks when they gathered in the Great Hall as they filled the hall for supper, but all he could find was Ygritte, sitting by her friends Jon, Samwell Tarly and Dolorous Edd.

For once, he had no appetite, and was pushing a piece of steak across his plate as Professor Greyjoy rushed in, pirate hat askew, terror on his face only interrupted by a leer as he passed their Divination teacher, Professor d’Asshai.

‘Troll!’ he cried, waving at the Headmaster, who quickly turned as dolorous as Edd. ‘Troll in the dungeons!’

Everyone started crying out at once.

‘Prefects!’ said the Headmaster, ‘lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!’

Lancel Lannister sat frozen in fear, but Addam Marbrand waved the Lannisters behind him, saying, ‘Calm down, get in an orderly line, everyone. Alphabetically please! First years with me.’

But Sandor grabbed Bronn instead.

‘Where’s Sansa?’ he said, as a fear gripped him that even the Hound’s armour might not be able to chase away.

‘Oh, so you want to know now?’ said Bronn. ‘I thought you said you–’

‘I don’t have the time for this. Where the fuck is she?’

‘If I had a mother, she’d say, “Bronn, dearest, the magic word is _please_!”’ Still, he pulled Sandor to the side and unfolded the map. ‘The girls’ toilets,’ he said. ‘The disused one on the first floor.’

 

**Sansa**

Just as she thought she’d rid herself of the ugly sobs that had taken over her body, Sansa remembered Sandor’s words afresh, and the tears began again.

‘There, there, poor girl,’ said the Ghost of High Heart who haunted this toilet, usually with her own tears and a slow and sad version of Jenny’s song.

‘I’m… s… sorry… for d… disturbing you…’ said Sansa, between sobs. This was the first place she’d thought of, when trying to find a spot that no one’d disturb, and everyone would simply walk by, thinking that the sobs were from the ghost instead.

‘Don’t be,’ said the ghost. Sansa thought it was trying to pat her on the head, but her eyes were so swollen by now that she could hardly make out the child-like form of the ghost.

‘ _High in the halls of the ones who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts_ ,’ the ghost sang, and Sansa cried harder still.

She should have known better. Hadn’t Robb and Jon tried to warn her?

All she wanted was to make a friend of her own who cared for her because she was _Sansa_ , not because she was a Stark, and not because… because of the scoop she’d give them on the Chosen One.

She sniffed, this time for the memory of a brown-haired girl named Alayne Stone. The first friend she’d made. Or so she’d thought. Until, months later, Alayne disappeared. Alayne never was. It had always been Petyr Baelish on Polyjuice Potion, milking their conversations for a damning piece on Jon.

After that, Mother and Father had found her Jeyne. Safe old Jeyne, whose father worked for them, who couldn’t even pretend to dislike Sansa even if she truly did.

 _We’re not even friends_ …

Perhaps Jeyne thought so too.

She rubbed at her eyes, and–

‘Troll!’ screamed the Ghost of High Heart. ‘Duck!’

Sansa’s sob turned to a scream as the sink beside her shattered. Even with her eyes as swollen as they were, and filled with half-cried tears, she could hardly miss the mountain troll. It was at least twelve feet tall, and wielding a club nearly as tall as she was.

The stench… There should have been a stench, she remembered, thinking about the mountain trolls she’d read in books, in the safety of Winterfell Manor. She should have smelled its approach and run, but her nose was blocked from sniffing, and… and…

She fumbled for her wand, only for it to fall at her feet.

Oh god… She was truly going to die.

 _Lady!_ she cried out, hoping that her direwolf would hear her and fly through the window… which the toilet did not have.

‘Go away!’ the Ghost of High Heart cried, swatting at the troll, but its hands merely passed through the creature.

The troll swung his club again, and a whole row of sinks exploded in its path. One of the taps broke, sending a spray of water at Sansa’s feet. Then a bit of piping bounced off its head, and it turned away from Sansa.

‘This way, pea brain,’ came a familiar rasp.

‘S… Sandor?’

‘Bloody hell,’ rasped Sandor, half under his breath. ‘Didn’t know trolls would look so much like my brother… If he was a few feet taller, and half dead.’

If that was the case, then his brother didn’t sound very nice. Sansa scrambled after her own wand and cried, ‘What are you doing here? Run!’

‘That’s what you should be doing.’

‘I’m not running,’ she said, with a stamp of her foot. The troll had been after her. She wasn’t going to let him get hurt over it. ‘You should be.’

‘Why the _[censored]_ do you think I’m here? Come on! Get the _[censored]_ out! Now!’

The troll turned its little head this way and that, staring between them with its beady eyes. Perhaps the noise and the shouting had finally become too much, for the troll charged towards Sandor with a roar. It raised its massive club, and brought it down over Sandor’s head.

‘No! _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ’ But her wand was slick with water from the broken tap, and the spell fizzled out.

No, no, no… She ran towards him, but… but she didn’t see Sandor raise his own wand. All she heard was a spell she’d never heard of before, almost whispered in his raspy voice.

‘ _Sectumsempra_.’

There was a bright flash of white light, and the troll roared again. Its club struck the floor with a loud clang.

There was something warm and sticky on Sansa’s wand hand. She lifted it, and stared at the wine-red smear. Oh. It was blood. Not hers, for she felt no pain.

She stared at the troll again.

The club wasn’t the only thing that had fallen to the ground; the club was still in its hand… only its hand, and arm, was no longer attached to its body.

Sandor had… had cut off its arm.

That couldn’t be right. He’d saved her, but… but… a spell like that could only be a curse. And everyone knew that curses were the worst. The darkest of the Dark Arts.

She gaped at her friend. The troll’s blood covered the unscarred side of his face, and he raised his wand at the wounded troll once more.

‘ _Sectum–_ ’

‘ _Stupefy_ ,’ came Professor Lannister’s voice.

In a flash of red and blue, the troll fell backwards, knocked unconscious. Sansa dashed aside with a squeak.

‘Good work, Clegane,’ said the professor, surveying the severed arm while Bronn Blackwater dry-heaved behind him. ‘I’m afraid we still have uses for that troll. Try not to slice it clean in two.’

‘What did you _do_?’ Sansa heard herself say.

‘ _Stupefy_? Surely you’ve heard of that spell before?’

That wasn’t what she’d meant. But this was neither the time nor the place.

 _We’re not even friends,_ he’d said. But he was wrong. He’d saved her, hadn’t he? He was still a good person, unlike Petyr Baelish, and for that, she was still _his_ friend, whether he liked it or not.

Someone had to have taught him that curse, and she was almost certain who that someone must have been.

‘Yes professor,’ she said, and tightened the grip around her own wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of an amalgamation of the Midnight Duel and Hallowe’en chapters in HP. 
> 
> Saffron’s father is one of the richest men in Gulltown, and is a spice merchant… I’ve kind of made her dad richer and have based his source of wealth on Jim Ratcliffe’s. 
> 
> In my head, Comet is Winterlands, and Nimbus is Sandsteed, as it’s a well-known breed that is beautiful, slim and fast. Firebolt is a newcomer, and is Fireplum in this story (named after the fictional fruit from the Reach), as its development was led by Willas Tyrell. 
> 
> Most ages are roughly by book canon… and it’s kind of weird to see how young most of these characters really are. The aged down characters are Sandor (of course), Bronn, Lollys, Lothor Brune, Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint. The Addam Marbrand here is an Addam Junior or aged down Addam... I think Junior, although I don’t know if the older Addam is going to appear yet. 
> 
> For non-HP fans, the spell with the red light that Tywin uses on Sandor is Crucio, which is an Unforgiveable Curse, but as he cast it non-verbally the first time round, the effects are not as bad… 
> 
> ‘Prefects! Lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!’ is from HP canon. 
> 
> I’ve combined the roles of the two girls’ toilets, so the troll attack happens in the toilet where Moaning Myrtle resides, or rather, Ghost of High Heart in this story. 
> 
> Anyway… Thanks for supporting this fic! This chapter is a bit more meandering and heavier than the previous ones. Hope you still liked it? Also… One of the main reasons I started this fic is because I needed Sandor to be Fluffy so badly. So here we are…
> 
> Next up is Quidditch! (I’ll also be making updates on my other fics soon now that I’ve passed my certification programme.)


	6. QUIDDITCH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singing, and a game of Starks vs Lannisters.

**QUIDDITCH**

**Sandor**

Quidditch practice wasn’t on today, but there were still things that he should have been doing, like the pointless-as-fuck homework that Professor Greyjoy had set them – to find pictures of the most attractive female dark creatures around, for which Sandor was planning to submit images of fire crabs, because fuck Professor Greyjoy. But instead, here he was, holding a toad that the Potions Master had shoved into his hands.

Sansa tried to give him an encouraging smile, but there was still a trace of surprise on her face. It must have been a shock to see him join them here in the Great Hall.

‘What will you be singing for us today?’ said the Potions Master.

Fuck. He’d only seen Sansa’s dot join the Potions Master’s dot outside of lesson time on Bronn’s map. He’d not exactly apologised to her for that friend comment, but then again, she’d not exactly thanked him for saving her from the troll. But he knew that he couldn’t leave her alone with _that man_.

Except when he got to the Great Hall, they were hardly alone.

There was Jon’s friend, Samwell Tarly, with Boris the toad in his arms, ready to gape at Sandor’s scars with ten others. There was a Lannister girl – was it Eleyna Westerling? – who was in his year, and both Tyrells; the rest he didn’t recognise, save Sansa.

Then the Potions Master had turned to look at him, and said, ‘Clegane? Are you joining us for the Frog Choir auditions? Well… don’t just stand there! If you haven’t got a toad, then here, take mine.’

Sandor must have died in that moment. Perhaps it was only his ghost who was now holding a giant toad whose name he didn’t know, not that that was what mattered at this point, because wasn’t that what had happened to their History of Magic teacher, Professor Aemon? That he’d merely turned into a ghost one night and carried on teaching?

‘I will… sing… a Muggle song,’ said Sandor, or ghost Sandor.

‘And what is it called?’

‘It… it’s called…’ He should just throw down the buggering toad and get the fuck out of there. What was the point of holding a toad anyway? All he could think of was his mother humming the tune out of the Titanic, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to sing _that_. ‘It’s called…’ There must be something else… ‘Well, it doesn’t have a name…’

‘Right… Well… Take it away!’

Fuck. Fuck. Triple fuck. He opened his mouth, and the toad croaked in harmony.

‘ _ABCDEFG_ ,’ he sang, because at least he knew the lyrics, and as he concluded on, ‘ _Next time won’t you sing with me_ ,’ he heard Eleyna Westerling whisper, ‘No thanks.’

He tried to make the toad croak a passable ending, at least, but instead, it leapt out of his hands and ran away. As he stood there in silence, Sansa began to clap. No one else joined in, until even her clapping faded away.

‘Clegane…’ The Potions Master said at last. ‘Come, let’s have a word.’

‘I’m sure he can improve, professor. He can become a valuable member of our choir if we–’

‘Thank you, Miss Stark, but please, just give us a moment.’

That was more than fine with Sandor. A moment alone with the man would be enough to stay the fuck away from Sansa Stark. He was the Hellhound. He was strong. He still wasn’t sure how the spell he’d used on the troll had made its way into his head, but it’d made him strong, and the blood and the violence reminded him of home. His hated, familiar, safe, dangerous… home. And this time, he was strong. Everyone should be afraid of him.

The door clanged to a close behind them, and the Potions Master rubbed a hand over his face.

‘Clegane,’ he said once more, as if bracing himself, as he well should, because Sandor could rip him to pieces if he so much as– ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘The Bolton bastard,’ said Sandor.

The Potion Master’s laugh was low and sad. ‘I’m not the bastard,’ he said, ‘and you’d be right to be wary of _him_. He calls himself a Bolton nowadays, wherever he may be hiding. Do you know why I call myself Snow?’

Sandor shrugged. It was one of those wizard things he didn’t really understand, feeling such an attachment to your ancestors, to make your space on those family trees almost life and death – he didn’t even know who his grandparents were on his mother’s side – but he supposed it must be different when you could see your great-great-great-grandfather waving at you from a portrait in your hallway.

‘I am on Jon Snow’s side. The Headmaster knows that. That’s why he lets me teach here. Look, I know Professor Lannister doesn’t trust me, and I know he most likely sent you to keep an eye on me – just like him, to use his students and his gold – but if there is someone in this school who is after the Philosopher’s–’ He caught himself. ‘...who is working to bring back the Red King – and I do think there may be, after the troll attack – but it is _not me_.’

Sniffing out lies was one thing that Sandor was good at, and he couldn’t smell the lie in the Potions Master’s words. But perhaps wizards could cover their tracks more easily. Or… it really _wasn’t_ him.

Then… who the fuck _was_ it, if there was anyone at all?

*

The proof came during the Quidditch match. The first one of their school year, and it had to be Stark versus Lannister. Grey direwolves and golden lions flapped about in the wind, and he could hardly hear Addam Marbrand’s words over the deafening chant: _We are lions, hear us roar! Starks are losers, and our.._.

Addam groaned. ‘We’ll get points taken off for using that chant again. Everyone, just remember what we did during practice and you’ll be fine. Let’s go out and get them!’

He knew what he had to do all too well. Being the faster of the two beaters, he was to go on the attack. Merlon Crakehall would focus on knocking the bludgers away should either attack anyone on their team, while it was up to Sandor to smack it into those on Team Stark. The number one target was their Seeker, Ygritte, and any damage to the Stark’s Chaser trio of Robb Stark, Jon Snow and Meera Reed would come second.

It was near half an hour into the game when he drew back his bat to strike the bludger into Jon Snow, who he’d seen out of the right corner of his eye, when he realised that something was wrong. The Stark Chasers had been in a hawkshead attacking formation, with Robb at the front and Jon Snow and Meera Reed following close behind, but Jon was trailing behind, half a beat slower and half a beat higher up than Sandor’s would have projected.  

It should have been nothing. Could have been nothing. Mistakes happened. But Jon was a smooth flier, and now… now there was something akin to confusion on his face, as his broom drifted higher and higher into the sky, breaking from the formation altogether.

No. This was not right. This was–

‘Clegane! What are you… Watch out!’

A bludger crashed into his shoulder, sending his own broom spinning. He blinked away the pain; it was a far cry from anything that Gregor could inflict on him. When he steadied himself enough to find Jon Snow again, the other boy’s broom had gone completely mad. It was shaking and lurching, as if it was trying to throw its rider off, and Jon Snow clung desperately onto it with both hands.

He saw Ygritte dive from up high, where she’d been looking out for the Snitch, but he was closer and just as fast.

There was a cry from Meera Reed, and Lancel’s voice drifted over from above, ‘Someone put him out of his misery. He can’t even fly straight!’

Just then, Jon’s broom rolled and spun violently, until Jon was merely hanging on from below with one hand.

*

**Sansa**

Oh god… She couldn’t bear to watch. Instead, she had to focus on things she could _do_ , and she could see Professor Lannister’s lips moving, muttering some sort of a jinx.

It couldn’t be. Surely it couldn’t be?

Professor Lannister had always been so _polite_ to her, and everyone knew that they’d have never won the previous war against the Red King without him. But… he was doing something to Sandor, wasn’t he? Precisely _what_ , Sansa was still trying to find out, but from how… how _nonchalantly_ Sandor had sliced off the troll’s arm, Sansa knew that she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

And now… Now Jon’s broom was being jinxed. And oh gods… If someone didn’t do something, Jon was going to… going to…

No. It wouldn’t do to dwell on things like that.

She pushed past a throng of increasingly panicking voices, past where Professor Greyjoy was staring gormlessly into the sky, nearly knocking him off his feet, but Sansa didn’t even apologise. She ran along the row behind Professor Lannister, wishing that she’d had Arya’s speed, but… oh, she had to make it. Had to, had to, _had to_ …

Skidding to a halt behind the man she’d once admired, she aimed her wand and muttered the spell that’d put a stop to it all. Bright blue flames shot out from the ends of her wand.

Seconds later, a sharp yelp told her that she’d done her job. Up in the sky, Jon was still clinging onto his broom, though only by a hand. It would stop shuddering soon. Sansa knew it. After all, the jinx was broken, and it’d just take a moment to… to…

Jon’s broom lurched again, and all of a sudden, he was holding nothing but air. Sansa cried out. Everyone cried out.

Just as suddenly, Sandor was there, and for a moment, Sansa thought he might be able to save Jon, but instead, they both tumbled out of the sky, as Sandor’s broom sank under Jon’s weight. She saw Sandor desperately tug at the handle, to bring the broom back under control, but it was falling, falling, falling, and soon enough, both of them would… would…

‘ _Molliare_ ,’cried Professor Snow.

Sandor and Jon bounced off the ground, as if they’d landed on a bed of feathers.

She could hardly breathe. She could hardly see, for the tears welled up then, but still, she saw Professor Snow give her a small, sad smile.

*

Bronn Blackwater was not her friend. In fact, she didn’t like him at all. Now, more so than ever, because he was waving a camera in her face.

‘Is that new?’ she asked. It looked new.

‘Yep. Good investment, if you ask me,’ he said. She _hadn’t_ asked him. ‘Got to look after number one, if you know what I mean.’

‘Are you going to tell me or not?’ she said, resisting an urge to stamp her feet. Months of following Sandor and Professor Lannister whenever she could had yielded no results, until a terrible realisation dawned on her: whatever it was, it must be something that happened after lights-out, because that was the only time she’d _never_ be found outside her dorm; after all, rules where there to be followed.

 The one person who must know what was going on, then, must be Sandor’s roommate, Bronn.

Which was why they were here, right now, having a conversation that Sansa wasn’t enjoying in the slightest.

‘I could,’ said Bronn, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, ‘if we come to an agreement. I’m a very agreeable person. Are you?’

Sansa didn’t feel she was right now. She set a handful of galleons down on the table, only for Bronn to push it back.

‘I’m not asking for your money,’ said the boy. Oh, perhaps he wasn’t as bad as she thought. Perhaps he was… ‘Let’s not be short-sighted about this. Ten photos today, then ten new ones every term for the rest of your time at Westeros. Deal?’

‘But… why?’

‘I’m setting up your fan club,’ said Bronn, as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world. ‘Trust me, loads of people are going to want to buy your photos.’

Sansa didn’t know whether to feel disgusted or pleased.

‘Say yes, and I’ll tell you exactly how to find him. Say no, and we’ll never speak of this again. Though… just between you and me,’ said Bronn, lowering his voice to a whisper, though they were alone in the classroom, ‘I think Professor Lannister is slowly killing him. But… who knows. I might be wrong.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is The Door, in which Sandor investigates the Philosopher’s Stone and Sansa investigates Sandor. Thanks for commenting and supporting this fic! There are only two more chapters under the end of the Year 1 arc. I’m aiming to update again next week – if all goes well. :-)
> 
> Info about the Lannister and Stark Quidditch teams will be going up on my tumblr shortly!

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Wasn't sure whether to post this or not, but as it's written, I thought... might as well. No promises of regular updates for now, but I won't leave this unfinished!


End file.
